Charismatic
by MiniSouffleCafe
Summary: John Smith, code name 'The Doctor', clever charming private eye with a bow- tie idée fixe. Clara Oswald, code name 'Oswin', also known as his imperious sassy companion. Solving murder mysteries and chasing down criminals in the perilous New York City, flirting included. (Eleven & Clara AU)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: ****I got the idea for this Fan Fiction a while ago actually, and it's still a work in progress, but I'll see how it goes! I won't be updating much on this story though, for it does take a while for each chapter to be written. :)  
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* * *

><p><strong><em><span>Chapter One<span>_**

The sound of her heels clicking down the hallway floor was an indication to John that Clara had something to yell at him about, because, well, usually she did. He didn't mind it though, albeit in the first few months of working together every time she spoke to him it seemed as if she had this look of hers as if she wanted to slap him in the face. _"It wouldn't hurt if I did, considering that your chin just serves as main defense." _She snapped at him in admonishment yet slight flirtation. Clara Oswald had always seemed to find John rather notorious, a persona that spoke for itself, and though she would claim him to be utterly idiotic, she had the heart to laugh at him in admiration on the inside. Not like she would ever admit that anyway.

TARDIS, private eye agency located in Manhattan of New York, the most prestigious type of detective performance one could commission. John Smith, a rather unusual human being at the most, one who thinks that _fezzes are cool_ and that _tweed coats are still in style_. Clara Oswald, the one to mainly boss him around at times and to force him to cooperate, for it wasn't obscure, John had the performance of a three-year old. He was one to think that fish fingers and custard was a brilliant concoction and that adults only waste their money on lamps and vegetables, and the thing that peeved her the most, _he just couldn't stay still_.

She walked into his office that early afternoon, neatly placing a few files onto his desk. One would suspect that Clara would just presume he'd get on with his work, but no, there were certain rituals that were committed to Clara's job, and one of those was to deal with his inability to cooperate in general. He pettily glanced up from the book he was reading, not taking any interest in the papers placed before him, which was usually expected of him. And in return, Clara raised an eyebrow at his responses, yet she wasn't the bit slightest surprised.

"Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, authority figure of the New York City's most lucrative array of exhibits at the City Museum." Clara explained the lesson like an exasperated teacher, opening the file to reveal a cover page of information. She turned the folder around in order for it to face him, still reading his book, Clara's words seeming to have no impact. He probably wasn't even paying any attention, yet he attempted to convince her that he was by a slight distracted nod of his head. Clara sighed. "Why does it always seem as if I'm talking to myself?" she said, feeling slightly hopeless.

"Huh?" John replied, oblivious to the fact that Clara was indeed trying to talk to him. Clara lowered the book from his face to meet his eyes, and she stared at him in slight anger an annoyance, _much _like an exasperated teacher.

"Put the book down, and do your bloody job."

"But I was reading!" he whined back, attempting to release the book from her grasp, only to find that it wasn't much use. Clara snatched the book out of his hands successfully, the front cover boasting their words, _Melody Malone, Private Detective in Old New York Town_. Clara stared at the rather improper cover image in suspicion.

"You're only reading this book for it's cover aren't you?"

He glared at her in defense. "No, I wasn't!"

Clara smirked as he clumsily tried to retrieve his book, at which point Clara only held it further away from his grasp. It was a pain in the derrière to get him to cooperate at times, therefore making her job even more difficult than it really should have been. Not as if Clara didn't like it, out of all things, she was rather enjoying it. "You seem to have a slight interest into malapropos cover images, don't you Doctor?" Clara teased, using the name she usually called him by. She didn't have a favorable liking into the name of John Smith; she thought it was just plain boring.

"I-it's not like that!" he sputtered out in protest. He attempted to grab the book from her by quickly reaching across his desk, thereby leaving him in a rather awkward position, at which at that point Clara hooked her index finger onto his ridiculous bow-tie, forcefully tugging his idiotic face to meet hers. _If he wore just a normal tie, this would've been much easier. _She lightly commented to herself as she looked him in the eye.

"_You_ do your work and make my job a bit easier; understood?"

John gulped, as for one, he was being violently pulled at by the neck, and, well, Clara could be one feisty and utterly terrifying assistant. He slowly nodded, at which at that point Clara smiled politely back at him.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Seven Months Ago<strong>_

John tapped on the marble coffee table he sat at in, trying to act as if he were preoccupied in reading Jane Eyre, for he was never really quite sure why he was reading it in the first place. He stared at the words as if they might have belonged to some peculiar alien dialect, and with the amount of sleep he had gotten in the previous night, a peculiar alien dialect was probably what he really thought it was. Alec had informed him to wake up early that day to meet up with this mysterious girl by the name of Clara Oswald, apparently his new, as he would say, _'associate'_._  
><em>

_"Fine young girl I must say, very attentive, a bit feisty if you ask me but I thought that would straighten you up a bit." _Alec had commented weeks prior, and John wasn't sure if those last words of his were intended to be a light playful insult or if he had really meant it. But by the looks of it, Alec probably meant it.

Alec informed him that he was to meet her at this apparently commercial coffeehouse that John had never heard of before in his life, therefore making him feel like he was getting old at a young age of twenty-seven. Hell, he didn't even know what this Clara girl looked like, nor did he know anything about her for the matter.

So he just continued to _very slowly _attempt to read Jane Eyre while half-asleep.

**~.~.~**

Behind the coffeehouse's reflective glass doors, Clara Oswald raked her fingers through her long brown strands of hair, for though she wasn't one with vanity issues, she liked to make a good impression. She nonchalantly strolled in like any other twenty-four year old customer would do, staring up at the chalkboard menu located above the glass counters filed with things frankly out of her appetite. The dust of the chalk defiantly spread across the board, smearing letters in various places, to Clara's slight annoyance, but that was the consequence of using chalk. _Too messy. _Clara felt the need to shake her head, but then finding the reason not to. She had to act as one, ordinary, uncaring human being. Clara then stuffed her left hand into the pocket of her crimson red trench coat, looking around for a bit until her hand met the feeling of a crumpled up paper at her fingertips. She pulled it out and carefully smoothed it out with her small hands, revealing to her a rather messy form of handwriting.

_Man in a bow-tie. Can't miss it.  
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Clara had received the note that morning under her welcome mat, she suspected it was from Alec, the man whom she had talked to on the phone when arranging her new former job. Above all things, she was excited, but she hid her feelings rather well with a sophisticated kind of manner. _Shouldn't be too hard to find this guy. _Clara thought, shrugging to herself nonchalantly and placing the note back into her pocket. Alec had told her she'd be working with some man whose name was John Smith, which Clara found the title rather ordinary, for John Smith was the most common name she'd ever heard of. The place was fairly busy, but it didn't take much looking around until she spotted him.

He was sat at the third table from the left, surrounded by tables that were lined along the windows, and must she say, she was rather surprised at his appearance. Fairly good looking, she must say, but just so _confusing_. His hair was gravitational at one fairly particular lock that seemed to cover a portion of his forehead, his eyebrows rather thin; green eyes that scanned the lines of a new edition of Jayne Eyre, and a chin that _certainly _spoke for itself. He wore a bow-tie around his neck, a deep violet purple tweed coat framing his physique, and must she have the right to say, Clara had mixed feelings about the way he looked.

**~.~.~**

She daintily placed a tea cup on his table, a gesture that surprised John, for he expected at least a decent _hello_. She sat down at his table, offering a smile which told John that this girl wasn't the least bit of shy. At first glance she didn't even look like a girl older than twenty-one, with her petite structure and rather short height. Her brown eyes looked attentive and she had a retroussé nose, brown hair that was pulled into a proportionate bun at the back of her head. "You're my new associate?" John asked her, the word _associate _sounding defiantly out of place.

"I was going to ask the same to you." Clara replied blankly, her eyes focused on stirring a spoon in her tea cup.

"You don't look like an associate."

"Neither do you." Clara retaliated back in a friendly manner, eying his bow-tie. "And I prefer the term _companion_." she smiled back at him, her words certainly putting him off track.

He simply looked at her for a few seemingly unimportant seconds of his life, for out of all the people he had worked with, none seemed as responsive as Clara. She didn't seem to mind (Or for that matter, _care._) about the amount of time he wasted just staring at her, it was almost as if she was expecting it. He shook his head in objection for that matter, but she was the one to speak up first.

"So, _John_, if I'm going to address you, must I use a different and slightly more interesting form of epithet?" Clara asked politely, the statement in the form of a question not _seeming _as an insult, but they both knew that it kind of was.

John frowned slightly. "Such as...?"

Clara looked up to the ceiling as if something up there were to help her think. "Is there a word for total screaming genius that sounds modest and a tiny bit sexy?" she suggested, a statement that designated that she certainly wasn't skeptical in speaking her opinion.

"Doctor. You call me The Doctor."

Clara smirked. "See what you did there." she replied, taking a generously long sip of tea, and when it was placed back down on its saucer, it sat nearly empty. Clara then reached into the front pocket of her coat and pulled out a small ripped piece of journal paper, lightly tossing it onto the page of the book he was reading, and as it met his eye, John glanced at it in slight confusion. "What's this?" he questioned her, holding it in between his index finger and thumb, looking at it in puzzlement.

"My number." Clara raised her eyebrows at his response, him then noticing the series of numbers neatly written in purple pen. Clara then stood up, for she didn't need much conversation to become aware of the fact that her next job was going to be rather enjoyable, in the most peculiar of ways. She wasn't apologetic for the little amount of time they had for conversation, for she had other things to do. She straightened her red coat and stuffed both hands into her pockets, then turning away to leave. But before she paced away, she faced him politely, deciding just to tease him for the fun of it. "Catch you later, Chin Boy." Clara winked.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter Two_**

"So what about this Kate Lethbride-Stewart?" John asked, impatiently adjusting his bow-tie, a habit that Clara usually found him committing.

"Not so much as her, more of her fifteen year-old daughter."

"What about her daughter?" John snapped back.

"She claims that this teacher of hers has been...eying her suspiciously for the past few months."

"What? Like stalking?"

"Much like stalking."

"What's this girl's name?"

"Osgood Lethbridge-Stewart." Clara clicked her tongue, reading the name in the fine print from her files.

"Osgood? What kind of a name is that?"

"Well it's better than your name. John Smith, what kind of a name is that? It's as boring as watching paint dry."

John glared at his assistant. "Well, why report to us? Why not tell the school counselor, mustn't be that big of a concern."

"Any form of stalking or activity of a supposed pedophile _is _a big concern." Clara snapped back at him. "Besides, that school doesn't have a counselor." Clara noted, leaning back in her chair.

"Well, it certainly needs one." John tapped his foot on the floor for a few moments, his hand stroking his rather provocative chin. (Well, provocative is the word that Clara used to describe it. Hell, it was bigger than his bloody face.) Clara rolled her eyes, for John was one to ensue himself in deep thought at times, the longest it lasted was a decent amount of two weeks. All of a sudden, John's face lit up in comprehension, a smile that Clara knew all too well. It meant that he usually had one of those insane ideas of his.

After a while, Clara finally understood what he was getting at. She promptly shook her head. "No, nope, I am not going to do that."

He pouted in reply, a pout that Clara had learned to deny rather well. "_No._" she repeated herself in clarification, making sure her words got through that thick skull of his.

He glowered at her in defeat. "But you'd make a lovely counselor." he claimed.

Clara raised an eyebrow in response; unsure of whether she'd take that as a complement or not.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Five Months Ago<em>**

"So...how's it like? Working with The Doctor, I mean." Amy asked, taking a sip of her tea, steam pouring from the rip of its cup. Oswin looked up at the ceiling of Amy's personal library, for in all honesty, her answer was unexplainable. The Doctor and Oswin were on a business related holiday in Europe, remaining a few nights at their their temporary staying inn, manor of Amelia and Rory Williams, the principal house of a landed estate. The Doctor and Oswin just served as a 'married couple' staying for a visit.

"Oh, I don't know." Oswin replied, her fingertips brushing the dust off of the books sitting atop the library shelf, for the felt almost deadly. "You really need to reread a few of these." Oswin added, brushing the dust in between her thumb and index finger. It had been two months, nearly eight weeks of working with The Doctor, and Oswin thought he was an absolute idiot. He was just so _childish_, something that Oswin hadn't exactly gotten used to yet, but she'd figured that she'd have to eventually.

"You can tell me, I _have _worked with him before, after all." Amy noted, and Oswin couldn't object to that. She was right, Amelia Williams was the former Scottish assistant to The Doctor, worked with him for ten years before moving to Europe with her husband. Amy and Rory then mainly worked from home, for they still had an ordinary life to live.

"He's absolutely notorious, rather...alien." Oswin finally replied, already preoccupied in pulling books from shelves and reading their summaries on the back cover.

"Nothing else?"

Oswin shook her head in reply, carefully replacing a few novels in their rightful place.

"...Clara..." Amy then said, the girl before her then turning to face her in surprise for using her actual name. "I beg your pardon, but...have you ever found an interest in fancying John?" Amy suggested, placing her tea cup on the stainless steel tray that carefully lay on the polished wooden table.

Oswin raised an eyebrow at Amy's accusations. "No, never had such a thought."

"So you don't think he's...oh I don't know...good looking?"

"I never said that he _wasn't_; he could be a pants model for all I care." Oswin replied nonchalantly, seeming to look busy at reading an old, pristine edition of _Pride and Prejudice_. Amy raised an eyebrow in suspicion, Oswin turning to face her blankly. "That idiotic face of his has its potential, why'd you ask?" Oswin questioned calmly, unintentionally giving interest into her partner's looks.

"Not that major of a concern really, it's just that The Doctor has never really loved anyone." Amy said in despondency.

Oswin looked up at the seventh shelf of books that was far out of her reach. "That's not true."

Amy tilted her head slightly, for it was the slightest bit of an exaggeration, but she had her reasons. "Well, there _was_ River, but to say that she was interested in another man." River was the one before Amy, she had been known to Oswin as _'the one with the skeptic space hair__'_. Truth be told, The Doctor _had_ an interest in her, but he knew that he'd never get a chance. She was married, had her own children, and if he had the insanity to commit adultery, The Doctor knew that any intimacy between him and River was simply out of the question. River was partners with The Doctor not to be a flirt, not to be friends, but to work, and that's all. River had a life of her own, a _world _of her own, and The Doctor was just a petty boy with a crush.

"You've given John this _change_, Clara." Amy told her softly, as if someone were hear the conversation between the two of them. "He's been more... _attentive_, almost in a way as to impress someone."

"Is that _someone _supposed to be me?" Oswin asked defiantly.

"Only if you want it to." Amy smiled.

* * *

><p>"No, I'm <em>not <em>going to do it." Clara said repeatedly as she walked defiantly down the long corridor of their office, John following behind her like a pleading canine.

"Oh, come on! It's a brilliant plan!"

"Me? A school counselor?" Clara scoffed at herself. "I don't think so."

"But Clara, you'll be great! Oswin and Osgood, you'll go well together." John said, making Clara giggle in reply. She stopped walking all of a sudden to face him, a defeating smile on her face. John, however, was rather surprised. Clara had hardly ever laughed at him, she would usually snap at the stupidity of words that came from his mouth, but for once in the their time spent together, she _laughed_.

Clara looked down at her shoes. "...if I'm going to commit myself to whatever idiotic and insane plan you have, promise that you'll be with me?" Clara asked earnestly, her expected sass and fiery attitude on a slackening respite. John had never exactly seen Clara seem so nice to him before. It was weird.

"Yeah, of course, always." he nodded his head in reply. "Just...why?" he questioned her in confusion.

"Because I don't like to work alone, Chin Boy." Clara playfully slapped him in the arm, then continuing to walk down the hallway until she was out of sight. John, however, stayed behind, somewhat clinging onto the surface of the floor, a bit stupefied at how Clara was acting towards him. She hadn't called him Chin Boy since the first day he saw her, a nickname that wasn't exactly into his liking, yet the obvious truth. For once she was giving into the fact that John was a complete idiot, and had actually shown that, for one, she kind of liked him that way. John had never really thought that Clara favored him all that much, and for the first time in his life, maybe he was wrong about that.

Some Sherlock he was.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter Three_**

Osgood Lethbridge-Stewart walked into her first period physics class on Monday morning, a bundle of textbooks her burden as she dumped them onto the wooden desk in the second row. Osgood examined them carefully to assure herself that she had gotten everything she needed,and yes she was one to do those kinds of things. Her eyes suddenly widened in realization and awareness, her hand anxiously feeling around her sweater pocket to feel for her inhaler, and luckily, there it remained, the little piece of blue plastic that helped her lungs do what they were made for. Osgood was, you could say, somewhat recognizable, but she didn't exactly take that as a good thing. She wasn't the most _likable _person ever, with her edgy nervous state of being that could easily draw people away from her, those huge glasses of hers covering half of her face. More so, the one thing that people thought was the most peculiar about her was that ridiculously long scarf always draped around her neck all the time. Kate had given it to her, said it was from her father's friend.

As students poured into the classroom, either half asleep or talking about wanting to be asleep, Osgood pretentiously reloaded her mechanical pencil, and in all honesty, she preferred the #2 yellow type of writing utensil. Angie said she was obsolete.

Osgood quietly sighed to herself as she heard the conversations of the people around her, and how she had a slight interest into joining them, like they would acknowledge her presence anyway. She turned her head to face the clock that seemed to be ticking one second per hour, and as she moved, she winced out a bit in pain. She tried best to ignore it.

She turned back around to fiddle with the somewhat complicated controls with of her mechanical pencil, just waiting for time to speed the hell up already and for the class to start. Maybe waiting was the consequence of coming early, which was a consequence of being the daughter of Kate Lethbrigde-Stwert. Nothing that could be done about that, really.

Suddenly, someone came into the room, someone _other _than the usual middle-aged Mrs. Pemberly who wasn't too bad at explaining the usual science of physics, someone rather...peculiar. "Good morning class!" this unusual man smiled brightly, his presence and strong enthusiastic voice certainly waking every living soul in that physics classroom. "Physics, what do you know?" he said as if it was a joke meant for himself.

**~.~.~**

The Doctor, a mad man, a geeky science braniac that happened to know more than the average human brain, and apparently, Osgood's new physics teacher. _This guy's weird. _Osgood thought to herself, but then again, so was she. Some of the girls in her class certainly took and interest into fancying him, for it wasn't complicated, this guy had looks, with the addition of confusing and obscure actualities of his appearance. She wondered if it was even _possible_ to have a chin that ridiculously large; or if anyone even wore bow-ties anymore, and that usual quiff of his made her question her understatement of gravity. _Physics. _She thought to herself, the word suddenly having no meaning to it anymore.

* * *

><p>Francesca Latimer stood outside the abandoned classroom door, a small, fragile piece of paper clutched in her hand. <em>Room 11A <em>it read in Lilly's handwriting. Frannie had ditched her second period literature class for this, she hoped it would at least be somewhat decent. Lilly had told her about this new female counselor that was apparently 'required' for the school, and it was like Frannie's saving grace. Frannie had always been a rather unexplainable child, having dreams of dying and abuse at a young age of fourteen, and her father had no idea how to cope with it, so he eventually gave up on offering any assistance, and she couldn't tell her younger brother Digby. She nervously held her fist to the tall door, hesitating for a moment before knocking lightly a few times. "Come in!" a light young voice call out calmly, as Frannie slowly turned the brass doorknob as she entered the room, having the slightest bit of idea as of what to expect.

It was a small room, but suitable, in fact; it didn't look a thing like a classroom. There was a coffee table in the center of the room, two parlor chairs sitting patiently on each side. There was an old mechanical desk in the back corner of the room, and sitting at it, a young lady in a crimson red dress with a very student-like (If you so may call it.) pleated skirt. She was younger than Frannie had expected, for her feet barely reached the ground as she worked, but as the counselor turned to face her, she smiled warmly. "Hello there! My name's Miss Oswin." she introduced herself, for she seemed like a fairly polite and understandable adult. "Here, take a seat." she pointed her fountain pen towards a chair, Frannie doing as she was told. Miss Oswin followed not too long after, smoothing out her dress as she sat down.

"...do you mind if I chew gum here?" Frannie asked shyly, the piece of sticky pink candy hiding underneath her tongue.

"Yeah, why not?" Miss Oswin replied, giving her a funny look, for she certainly had no problem with it. "Just don't leave it on the furniture, they're all rental." she noted, looking down at the papers that sat neatly in her lap. "Besides," she added, writing something down. "I can trust you, right?" she smiled wittingly at Frannie, who nodded slowly in nervousness. "Brilliant." she smiled again, emphasizing her grin. "So," she started, her pen ready at hand. "What's been on your mind?"

* * *

><p>The Doctor sat at a vacant table near the end of the cafeteria, observing the students that passed by ever so carefully. He stuffed a fish finger into his mouth, a food that was rather enjoyable to him. (When he had found out what had been on the lunch menu for that Monday, he thought it certainly in it's own way ironic.) Little did he realize when Oswin walked up and sat herself down neatly on the seat next to his, joining in on his student observing. But when he did finally see her, he found himself rather surprised, but just stayed quiet while eating his fish fingers, along with a can of custard that he so happened to pick up along the way. It stayed silent for a few moments before he popped up a conversation. "So, how was your day so far? Being a counselor any fun?"<p>

Oswin took it as sarcasm, still staring straight ahead. "It's alright." she finally said, staring at the students who didn't bother to pick up the trash that they had attempted to throw in the garbage, for goodness sake, some people just had a horrible aim. "Had to deal with skinny girls on diets and teenage snogging dramatics; I had a girl who came in with pantophobia." she pointed out.

"Fear of pants?" The Doctor said in slight amusement of himself. Oswin wasn't too fond of the irony.

"Fear of everything." Oswin raised her eyebrows in response. "...including pants I suppose." The Doctor laughed. Oswin smiled a bit in spite of herself. "There was this one girl though, she just sort of stood out... I think her name was... Frannie." Oswin played with the ring on her middle finger, a habit of hers when she was suspended in thought. "Said she was having these dreams." She then shook her head. "How about yourself, teaching physics?"

"Time of my life." The Doctor grinned. He was a brainiac when it came to physics, hell, he was a fangirl of Isaac Newton.

Oswin raised an eyebrow in response, then turning back to watch the atmosphere of private school students. After a while, she realized the kind of cuisine that her partner had been stuffing into his face for the past few minutes, and she looked at his tray in slight distaste. "Where did you get the custard?" she asked, staring in repugnance.

"Kitchen." he responded nonchalantly, Oswin looking at him in slight disgust. Only The Doctor would look around the school's kitchen to find custard for fingers of fish. She shook her head. "So, when are you going to talk to Osgood?" she questioned, attempting to change the matter.

"In a few days. Don't want to seem obvious."

Oswin responded with only a slight nod as she stared straight ahead of her. "What does this girl look like?"

"Rather distinctive, ponytail, humongous glasses, she had a nice scarf." he commented. "Keeps taking that inhaler of hers though."

It wasn't long before Oswin had spotted her amongst the crowd of people, for he wasn't wrong, Osgood was rather distinctive. She sat at her table, for she looked incredibly stiff, almost nervous, as if she knew that something was going to happen. The girl next to her had massive frizzy curls of deep brown hair, a rather agitated expression on her face.

Meanwhile, The Doctor took an apple from his lunch tray and held it somewhat proudly in his palm, taking a bite into it. He chew it a few times, that idiotic yet satisfied smile on his face. "An apple a day keeps the..." he started, then stopping mid-sentence, his mouth half full. Oswin scoffed in amusement. The Doctor frowned in disagreement, placing (Almost throwing) the apple back onto his tray. "Eh, apples are rubbish." he muttered under his breath.

Then, Oswin spotted a man in a suit, she supposed it was a teacher, walk up behind Osgood and sharply tap her on the shoulder, the fifteen year-old girl flinching in what it seemed like slight terror and pain. Oswin narrowed her eyes as he whispered something in her ear, and ever so easily, she stood up carefully and followed him out of the cafeteria, the girl who sat beside her not even seeming to care. That man, there was something unusual about him, the way he smiled in deceitful bliss, his hair a shade of whitened blonde, his eyes cold and just a little too _blue_, in a way that you would describe ice. Oswin tried to shake it off, but that didn't mean that she wouldn't take it into her suspicion. She presumed she would find out sooner or later.

"I need to get going." she shook her head, standing up, grabbing the already bitten apple from The Doctor's lunch tray and biting into it herself, for she hadn't eaten, and she didn't have too much of a fondness towards fish fingers and custard.

"Bye Clara-" The Doctor said, his eyes widening in realization. "I mean...Oswin..."

She laughed. "See you, John."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **So sorry for not updating last weekend, I was rather busy and this week's been nothing but frustrating. But I'm back, and have a week off of school so I'll be able to write more! Also, if you have the time that is, I do enjoy reading your feedback on this, so please take reviewing into consideration! Thank you. :)

P.S. As the days go by while The Doctor and Oswin are still working for the school, you'll begin to see a developing ritual of them spending their lunch breaks together. Just a cute little thing I'd thought I'd throw in there. ;P

* * *

><p><strong><em><span>Chapter Four<span>  
><em>**

_She awkwardly walked behind him, trying to keep up with his fast pace. Osgood never had a fair chance at being comfortable around people, and she figured that would never really change. The ritual had been going on for a few months now, and Osgood knew that she was practically committing a crime, but it was either committing one, or getting her brains blown out by the shot of a gun. Osgood didn't have a choice, with the poor bravery she held in her stomach. She was doing something wrong, something terribly, horribly wrong, and being the daughter of Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, that made consequences even worse._

_ Now before any inappropriate assumptions are made, let the truth be told that Osgood's felonies were under the criteria of hacking. Though she may be a socially awkward and ever so vulnerable pariah, Osgood was smart, hell, she was brilliant. Her brain revolved around mathematical calculations and unexplainable science, quite the connoisseur at computer hacking, yet Osgood had never known that it would be used for such a pessimistic use. _

_He used her. The Editor; an intimidating threatening man who looked a little bit to much like a ghost, yet a hint of charm to convince one that he wasn't the slightest bit of devious. He seemed like an ordinary history teacher to an ordinary student eye, though Osgood had to keep her mouth shut about every single lie she'd known about him. Every other day of every week, he'd come and collect her from lunch, what was known to others as advanced placement classes, and he'd take her to the computer technician lab, and, well, she'd hack. Nothing but hack. And so you may ask, what shall happen if Osgood rejects to such illegal requests? Well, let's just state the fact that The Editor knew of her weaknesses. _

The Editor and The Doctor. They seemed a hell of a lot similar. _Osgood thought to herself while pacing down the hallway; it would have been amusing to her if the circumstances hadn't been so horribly terrifying. She pondered at the assumption that the two had some form of similarity or somewhat connection, she could find that on her own at a later time. The Editor opened the door to the empty classroom, and Osgood hesitated a moment before stepping in;she did that every time. She sat herself down at the first computer at the first row; the computer she had acquired a strange attachment to. He locked the door behind him as Osgood breathed in and tried to control herself. "W-what are you going to make me do this time?" she tried to snap at him, her voice coming out weak and fragile.  
><em>

_He grinned at her immorally. "You know me too well, Miss Stewart." He'd have something new for her to hack into every time, and every time he'd forced her to do it. He'd threatened her. He smoothly slid into the teacher's revolving chair at the front desk, spinning around a few times, almost as if he was thinking."What shall we hack today?" he muttered to himself in content. He obviously already targeted his mind on a decision. He spun the chair around to face Osgood and simply smiled. "What the hell...let's hack Torchwood."  
><em>

_Osgood sat up straight in her chair, for her mind had never really thought about hacking into Torchwood archives. No, it was too dangerous, she couldn't do it. Torchwood was a reliable ally with UNIT, the main security company her mother worked for, and if anyone found out about her hacking into its system, do you know how disgraceful consequences like that could be? "...no." Osgood mumbled to herself, for it brought her to shame at how easily he could convince her to follow his orders. Her voice was tiny and scared, but The Editor heard it just fine._

_"What was that?" he asked her in a mocking surprise, his blue eyes narrowing. "No?" He raised his eyebrows at her response."Well, we can't take that for an answer, can we now?" He asked suspiciously, standing up from his chair and walking over to her. He stared at her coldly, lowering his voice as if someone were to hear. "I don't care if your the daughter of UNIT's commissioner, you don't follow orders, consequences will be obliged. Violent ones I might add." he growled lightly, his hand clenching her shoulder. Osgood flinched in slight pain, for he had a strong hold of her. "And besides, by school rules, you're supposed to do as you're told. Especially teachers." he lightened up a bit, flicking the bone underneath her collar. Osgood squirmed, for she had broken her collarbone when she was twelve, and though the injury didn't require surgery, it sure as hell hurt. Even now. The pain surged through her, and it told her that she'd better do as she was told unless she didn't want to break her clavicle. Again. _

_Osgood turned to face the blank computer screen and saw her reflection and in all honesty, she didn't know what to do with herself. She didn't care whether she was an honors student, she didn't care if she was called 'unbelievably talented in academics.' She cared about the fact that no one was there for her to tell. She couldn't even tell anyone. Her mother was either too busy or too tired to merely acknowledge her presence, and Osgood didn't even have a decent friend, and besides, what sort of a teenager would believe such an insane story about her psycho history teacher? It was then when the reality broke in. Osgood was alone. So with a shaky hand, Osgood turned on the computer, and thought to herself, I'm hacking Torchwood._

"Osgood!" A familiar voice called out to her. She snapped out her daydream to realize that the certain voice had belonged to The Doctor, and that she was sitting half-asleep in his first period physics class. "Huh?" she slightly mumbled to herself in embarrassment, then hoping that no one had heard. She turned to face The Doctor who was sitting at his desk in the front of the classroom. "May I please talk to you, Osgood? After class?" he asked her with that slight conviction that all teachers had. Osgood stared at him for a moment, taking a small respite to search her brain for any recall of her doing anything wrong. She couldn't find anything, so she didn't see a reason for him to feel the need to talk to her. "...okay." she responded nevertheless, The Doctor flashing her a small smile just as the bell had rung. As the students filed out of the classroom, Osgood arranged her books neatly on her desk for her convenience when she was to leave, then tiredly sliding out of her seat to toddle over to his desk. The Doctor had probably realized that Osgood was rather lethargic on that particular morning, so he motioned for her to have a seat in the desk directly in front of his.

Doing as she was told, Osgood asked suspiciously. "What did you call me in here for? Did I do anything wrong...?" she asked apprehensively. The Doctor shook his head.

"Oh, no, this is nothing about that, don't worry." He assured her, much to Osgood's relief. "I just have a...um...a small concern." He nodded his head slightly, Osgood keeping quiet to allow him to continue, at which point he did. "I've been informed by a few certain people that you've been acting kind of...off lately I should say, and I know that it's your personal decisions on whether to keep to yourself or not, but I've scheduled you for an appointment with the school counselor today during your advisory time." he took a moment's respite to allow Osgood to take it all in. "Not long, just a few minutes to get acquainted with her, she's a very attentive young woman, so don't hesitate to ask her anything." he smiled kindly, handing her a piece of paper with the times and the room number. Osgood looked at it blankly. She'd never heard of the school having a counselor, and she sure had never considered talking to one.

"Um...okay I suppose." Osgood whispered quietly, taking one last glance at the slip of paper before stuffing it into her pocket. "Thanks Doctor." she said shyly, and turned back to retrieve her books before heading out the door. But before she did, she turned back to take a good look at him, The Doctor, in suspicion. "What's her name?" she questioned him, wondering if he'd know the answer.

He looked up from the book on his desk and stared back at her. "Her name's Oswin."

* * *

><p>Oswin bit into her apple during her lunch period, the bitten piece just a tiny bit to big for her mouth to obtain. The Doctor stifled a laugh at the sight of her. "I must look so attractive right now." Oswin mumbled with her mouth nearly full, attempting to chew successfully. He laughed even more so as she lightly swatted him in the arm. She turned back to stare at the crowd of adolescents before her in the cafeteria, for it wasn't hard to realize that the place was certainly loud. "Oh yeah, Osgood's seeing you today, one thirty." The Doctor added. Oswin nodded her head as if to say <em>Okay<em>, the word obviously not being able to come from her mouth considering the fact that an abnormally large amount of food was blocking her ability to speak. She continued to chew for a few blissful minutes before finally swallowing. "So," she started, neatly placing the apple on a napkin. "Who do you think he is?"

"Who's 'he'?" The Doctor asked.

"That...guy that took Osgood yesterday, you know, too much pride in their stride, sort of like you when you're walking?" she said nonchalantly, The Doctor glaring at her playfully. "Ruffian? Raider? Technological brainiac?" she shot a few suggestions towards him.

"Why would he need Osgood if he was a technological braniac?" he pondered, Oswin nodding her head slightly to show that she was paying attention. It wasn't obscure, he could tell that Osgood was somewhat into computers, judging by her grades in that particular criteria. (He had hacked into the school's grading system the night before, then realizing that he didn't really have to, he had the rights considering that he _was _a teacher after all.) "Could be a ruffian, couldn't see why not, but a raider?" He scoffed lightly. "What's to steal from a secondary private school?" The Doctor folded his hands and set them on the table. "That guy...he's not here for the school, I think he's here for Osgood's smarts of sorts." he muttered to himself. "I mean, what else?"

"But why couldn't he just find someone who works in his own agency to do all of the technician matters?" Oswin asked suspiciously.

"I don't know, he either works alone or everyone he works with are idiots." The Doctor snapped, slouching over a bit, thinking to himself. "But maybe..." he suddenly found a realization. "Maybe it's not just for Osgood's acumen, _maybe _it's for her mother's work."

Oswin felt a tiny bit enlightened for a mere moment. "Yeah..." she trailed off, thinking about it for a few moments. "Osgood's mother is the head of UNIT, owns a set of exhibition displays, maybe..." she trailed off. "Maybe he wants something from her." Her mind was carefully taking mental notes.

The Doctor, on the other hand, was feeling rather exuberant. He always had that feeling when something was up. "Ah, brilliant!" he exclaimed, coming to the attention of the next few tables or so. He simply waved back at their odd looks. "Oswin," he said in a hushed voice. "You need to find out what Osgood's been doing, might take some time though, have to admit, you can be a little hard to trust-_ow!_" he yelled as quietly as he could as Oswin practically stomped on his foot underneath the table with her heel."Okay, let's just say you have minor yet _understandable_ trust issues." he said slowly, his temporary injured foot serving as proof. "Alright?"

Oswin glared at him for a moment before nodding her head. "Yeah...alright."


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter Five_**

"So, tell me about yourself." Oswin instructed her nonchalantly, only getting comfortable in her chair. Osgood, however, was far from settled.

"What's there to know about?" she asked in unease, on the edge of her chair, her shoulders tense._  
><em>

"Oh, I don't know...got a name for starters?" the counselor smiled at her, Osgood wondering if she was intent with her sarcasm.

"Osgood Lethbridge-Stewart...?" she mumbled quietly under her breath, her voice slightly cracking. She adjusted her glasses. Osgood had mixed feelings about her name; it was either it didn't suit her or she just didn't _want _it to.

"Is that in the form of an answer or the form of a question?" Oswin asked.

"In the fifteen years of my life, I think I've become pretty acquainted with the sound of my own name." Osgood answered back, and it wasn't an answer out of sass or back talk, it was out of truth.

"Good." Oswin said, nodding her head slightly. "Osgood, just out of curiosity, what have you been doing with..._The Editor? _That's what he goes by, correct?"

Osgood blinked at her twice. "Yes. It's...advanced...placement classes, that's all. Every other day."

"And you're the only one?"

"Yeah...suppose so."

"I thought advanced placement classes are supposed to be attended daily-"

"It's a flexed arrangement." Osgood interrupted, a bleak attempt to stay calm.

Oswin only nodded her head slowly. "Alright, and how are these advanced placement classes?"

She felt a lump in her throat. "...they're going along well."

"Learned anything of use?"

"Yes." Osgood replied, and that wasn't a lie.

"So is this...Editor a good teacher?"

"...yes. Strict with his students, but yes."

"Osgood, has it ever pressured you, your mother's work and what form of authority she holds?"

"Sometimes, I guess."

"Do you ever feel nervous or stressed about this concern?"

"On occasions."

Oswin twirled her pencil in her hands, taking a respite to jot down a few notes that Osgood didn't find any purpose for. But nevertheless, Oswin wasn't the only one with questions. "Do you have a last name, Miss Oswin?"

She looked up from her clipboard. "I believe that real question is, _what is your last name?_"

Osgood looked down at her lap.

"...Montague." she replied after a long respite of silence, looking up from her papers.

_Oswin Montague. _Osgood thought. It was unusual yet...fitting.

* * *

><p>The following day, Oswin sat next to The Doctor during lunch, tapping the table in unease. "She's lying." she whispered, coming out as a mere mumble, though The Doctor could hear her just fine. She knew that it would take time to ease Osgood to allow her a better understanding of the situation, yet Oswin couldn't tolerate lying; she could just tell so easily. The way she had been sitting, her stiff posture and nervous face, but then again, maybe that's just her unforgivable persona. Yet, with the things that Oswin had already known, she had become very aware of the fact that she wasn't telling her the truth. And maybe even if Osgood decided to come at a regular schedule, she still wouldn't have the audacity to trust her, therefore even admit to her that anything was wrong, which basically took out the main principal of the term, <em>counseling<em>.

"I could talk to her if you want." The Doctor offered. Oswin only shook her head. She knew that it wouldn't be of much use. "It's just, I don't believe she'll trust anyone with ease." she replied in a careful manner, staring straight ahead of her into the atmosphere of clanging tin lunchboxes and plastic lunch trays, the thought of food itself not giving much of an appetite to her. She just didn't really feel hungry, which happened occasionally when something was bothering her, which in this case, was the whole purpose of her being in a school. She sighed to herself, raking her fingers through her hair, a typical sign that she was hassled.

"Hey," The Doctor said, placing a hand down on her shoulder lightly as a sign of comfort. "Don't stress out about it, you've just met her." he said quietly, in a soft tone of voice. Oswin, however, simply stared at his hand on her shoulder as if she just wanted to earnestly rip his arm off. She just wasn't exactly used to physical contact when it omitted slapping him in the face, and she wasn't sure whether to just brush his hand off or to leave it there; for getting fired up about the situation was certainly out of the question in a place like this. So hesitantly she just bit her lip and let his hand stay there for a few more seconds. "I'm just worried about her, I mean, nobody's going to help her if she doesn't tell anyone, and we aren't even aware of what's happening in the first place-"

"I know, it's going to be alright, trust me." he responded, then rubbing her arm gently, at which at that point Oswin really wanted to rip his arm off. Hell, she wasn't used to him doing that. Yet, it felt sort of comforting in a strange and confusing way that Oswin couldn't really make of. "Okay." she whispered quietly, clenching her fist underneath the table and then relaxing her grip, the sound of her breath lost in the loud voices of students talking and yelling at one another. She wanted to calm down, yet she couldn't accept the fact that Osgood could be getting hurt, and even more so, _used _by The Editor.

That's when, in the corner of her eye, she saw him. Like he did two days ago, he calmly walked behind Osgood, tapping her in the shoulder as she weakly obliged to follow him, the one thing that Oswin wanted to suffocate the man for. She had to know what they were up to. "I'll...I'll be right back, okay?" she asked The Doctor lightly, to which he looked at her in a slight concern.

"Oswin, I don't want you getting hurt-"

"I'm _not _going to get hurt." she hissed back, her expression softening when she realized that he looked genuinely unsettled. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. Promise." she reassured him, and without another word, carefully followed The Editor and Osgood out of the cafeteria. She attempted to look preoccupied and the least suspicious as possible, taking out her mobile phone and checking the date and time in order to busy herself away from their attention. Oswin then became aware that they were heading towards the computer lab, so she silently took a few spare papers from the recycling bin to serve as her excuse; nobody was going to use them anyway. Yet once they reached the lab, The Editor turned around abruptly and stopped her in her tracks.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but we'll be using the computer lab until the lunch period is over." he said in an overly polite manner, one that sounded frankly blatant and annoyed Oswin at the least.

"I have to use the copy machine, I'm sure my presence will not disrupt your _AP _classes." Oswin replied.

"Miss Osgood is to be taking her AP exams; no one shall interrupt her concentration."

"Well I'm sure that you can use one of the classroom computers, if such test taking necessities are required." she eyed the man carefully, keeping her anger hidden under a faint smile of persuasion. The Editor, however, was not the slightest bit convinced. He simply turned around with a slight scowl, closing the door in a violent manner, so much that it made Oswin's hair blow back by it's intensity. She huffed a bit in frustration, for The Editor was one not to give out any sort of leeway. She stood there outside of the door, thinking to herself for any possible way to eavesdrop on the conversation, when she realized that there really was only form of doing so.

She'd have to do it the old-fashioned way.

* * *

><p>Oswin never had a particular liking of being short, and it bothered her in particular occasions such as this. She stood looking up at the high window right above her head, if she had been taller the situation would have been much easier. She figured that if she carefully slid the panel open, she'd be able to hear what was going on inside of the lab, maybe not the whole conversation, but enough to hear what was generally happening. There was an old, bent oak tree to her left, so with some luck and muscles, Oswin hoped that she could reach the window from her position. She removed her jacket and tied it around her waist, slightly agitated by the heat. She then carefully placed her foot on the tree, then realizing that she wouldn't get very far with heels, so she quickly took them off and placed them neatly on the ground beneath her. Oswin wasn't too much on trees, but she could climb them when she needed to.<p>

When she was far enough to reach the window, she was happy when she found it easy to open, so with her tiny hands, Oswin carefully slid the window open a mere two inches, enough to give her the leeway to hear The Editor's sharp voice.

"I've told you this before, when you don't listen to orders, there are consequences." he growled as Osgood, and even though they were on the opposite side of the lab, Oswin could hear them just as clear.

"I-I can't." Osgood's fragile voice replied. "_I can't! _I might be able to hack into Torchwood, 13 Bannerman Road, but...but not UNIT. Never UNIT." she snapped, a bit of courage in her voice. Oswin's eyes narrowed. _She'd been...hacking? _

"You follow _my_ orders on school grounds-"

"That's my _mother _you're talking about-!" Osgood yelled before Oswin heard her shriek as a loud noise of a slap echoed in the walls of the classroom. Oswin gasped, covering her mouth. _He...he didn't...he couldn't have..._

"You do what I tell you to do or else you're dead, you hear me?" he growled, his voice lucid.

"I...I..."

"I said, _you hear me?!_" his voice roared in an angry manner, so loud that Oswin's foot slipped from the branch in surprise, her tiny physique tumbling to the ground. She landed on her back, slightly moaning in the pain, her eyes directed towards a gash on her upper arm. She grimaced. A branch must have tore her skin. Other than that, she felt alright, at least, enough to stand up and walk again. She carefully sat up, blood slowly running down her arm. She looked at it in disgust, hastily removing her jacket from her waist and pulling it on to soak up the blood. She could clean it up later.

* * *

><p>Once back in the school hallways, she passed students on their way to class, a rather difficult task itself, especially when you just fell out of a tree. She saw The Doctor walking by to his own classroom, him giving her an interested look before stopping to talk to her. "Hey, you alright?" he asked. "You look a bit...shocked."<p>

"I'm fine," she denied, trying to make her way past him, failing miserably as he grabbed a hold of her upper left arm to stop her, Oswin adopting a look of pain. "Ouch!" she snapped at him, shoving his hand off. Her eyes then softened as she then realized that she had been caught.

"Oswin, what's wrong?" he asked her sternly.

She then knew that she'd have to admit to him, so without another word, she partially removed her jacket from her shoulders, a sight of a decent wound and smeared blood coming from it. The Doctor's eyes widened at how horrible it looked, and without saying anything, laced his fingers around hers. Oswin stared at his hand in hers for a moment, for he had never, never even once held her hand. It felt terrifying. "Come on." he instructed her, pulling her along.

"Doctor, no! You have a class-"

"And they can wait."

She sighed in exasperation. "Where are we going?"

"The infirmary."

"You don't have to take care of me-"

"Oswin," he said blankly, turning around to face her. "I'm called The Doctor; at least give me some decency to the name."

* * *

><p>"So, what did you figure out that got you into this?" he asked in a slightly amusing tone of voice, carefully cleaning her arm with a paper towel. Oswin hissed at the burning pain.<p>

"Osgood...she's...she's been hacking into these...major security institutions, and...it sort of led up to hacking into UNIT." she shook her head. "This Editor...he's been..._hurting _her... and I can tell it in her voice and I hate it." she scowled. Her legs swung from the exam table that she sat on, The Doctor taking care of her minor injury.

"Ah," he said, as if he saw it coming. "Well, we can't have that." he said calmly, neatly folding the paper towel in his hands and throwing it into the waste basket. "I'll talk to the authorities of TARDIS, see what we can do about it."

"Doctor..." she said quietly as he carefully removed the paper from an over sized bandage "You don't think they could've...hacked into _our _records, do you?" she asked weakly.

"Nah," he replied, grinning at her. "I do things the old-fashioned way."

"What's your interpretation for 'the old-fashioned' way?" she asked out of curiosity.

He carefully placed the bandage on her upper arm. "Oh, you know. I have all of our records on paper instead of online."

Oswin smirked. "Don't you think that's a little dangerous, just under lock and key?"

"Well, if Osgood hasn't broken into them yet, then it's a pretty beneficial plan then, don't you think?" he smiled. And for once, she smiled back. "Oswin," he started.

"Please..." Oswin interrupted; after all this time, she still wasn't used to her own code name. "...call me Clara when there's no one around, will you?" she asked him quietly. He started at her for a few moments, then nodding his head in reply.

"Clara...you know what you said about me not having to take care of you?" he asked. Clara stayed still, unable to answer. She didn't really expect him to remember that. "Whenever I work, and wherever I go, me being your partner means that I keep you safe, you got that?" he asked her in a soft voice. Clara looked at him for a minute, trying to look past his eyes, which she realized for the first time, held a shade of green. She nodded. And even though he was a complete idiot, Clara had the mind to trust him.

Not like she would ever tell him that.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Chapter Six_**

The Editor didn't come to school the next day.

Oswin almost laughed about it, mainly because The Doctor was all up and ready to scold him, a rehearsed reprimanding speech with witty punch lines and all. He was rather disappointed that it didn't go to a decent use. It didn't take the two to become aware of the fact that The Editor had already gotten what he wanted, he specifically wanted those files from UNIT, that's why he chose Osgood to do all the heavy work, not to give himself any sort of advantage, to put her through the misery of betraying her mother's institute. Criminals loved watching other people's suffering. And along with that, he got a few complimentary files from Torchwood and Sara Jane Smith's office as well, just for the fun of having something to threaten them with when necessary.

"Doctor, I'm sorry, I do believe you," Kate said through the phone, Oswin and The Doctor hovering over the receiver attentively. "But no files seem to be missing or out of place, and viewing history has been nonexistent in the archive at the time and date you claim them to have taken place." she clarified. Oswin bit nervously on the cherry lollipop in her mouth, wishing that it would shatter into pieces already. (Counselor perks.) The Editor didn't steal any files, he copied them, or maybe even just looked at them, but he had what he needed to know regardless. She should've known already that The Editor would've deleted his internet history from UNIT, because criminals, out of all things, weren't stupid. "But thank you for informing us of this matter, we'll make sure to enforce the security as soon as possible to only detect signals from the UNIT headquarters." she said, and then hung up. Oswin sighed, boosting herself up atop of The Doctor's desk while he hopelessly played with the spiral phone cord.

"Those files could be anything, you know." Oswin offered, her voice slightly mumbled due to the lollipop in her mouth. "We just need a clue, just...something...something to start with." she shook her head. "Criminals like playing games, remember that."

"Yeah but what if they don't? What if The Editor didn't want to play any stupid games? He has information from their files, maybe that's all he wanted."

"They never_ just_ want what they steal."

"Well what else could be want?" he asked her sternly.

"Doctor, take into consideration this." Oswin said, taking the lollipop out of her mouth so she could speak clearly. "People _want us dead too._" she looked at him, her eyes showing the least bit of worry. "We work for TARDIS for God's sake, any criminal would want to see our blood pour out by a gunshot wound, shot _by them_." she said quietly, in barely a whisper. "Convicts these days don't just...steal what they want and run, they want to be chased after." she reprimanded, and though it sounded unwholesome, it was the truth. "They want the victory of proving to other people that they can defeat the ones against them, and don't we want that too?" she asked, and she could admit it, she wanted that Editor dead, and whoever he worked for too. The Doctor, however, stayed silent, yet still listening to what she said, his eyes fixed onto the blackboard behind her.

She looked down at her shoes, a letter on his desk catching her eye at a sudden. "Hey," she said quietly, her voice a mere mumble as she picked up the envelope and inspected it carefully. "When did you get this?" she asked.

"It was on my desk after lunch," he said, strolling over to his blackboard and picking up a piece of chalk, writing a few mathematical equations to solve in order to pass the time and to calm the stress, for in his sane mind, he thought math was a beauty.

"Mind if I open it?"

The Doctor waved his hand as if he couldn't care less, calculating the volumes of cylinders and such, it was like a three-year old drawing daisies and dandelions. _Simple._

Oswin raised an eyebrow, not only at him but at the letter, for it had no return address, just _The Doctor _written in a flawless font that Oswin swore was printed out by a typewriter, but no, it was real, raw, pen ink. She carefully tore the envelope open, sliding out a piece of paper, and immediately wanting to scream at what she saw. It was a tiny piece of card stock, cut out to pristine conditions and perfect proportions, drops of dried blood stained onto the surface in a way that looked as if the paper had been painted on, the words _come find me _written in that same, unimpaired handwriting printed at the top. She hastily but delicately placed the piece of paper on the desk before her, hopping off of his desk and covering her face with her tiny hands, mumbling curse words to herself.

The Doctor turned around to see why she seemed to be hyperventilating, his eyes fixing onto the piece of paper that Oswin held in her hands only a mere few seconds ago. The blood shown its pride, the handwriting even more disturbing. _Come find me.  
><em>He brushed the chalk dust off on his pants, walking over to the desk and looking at it closely, his eyes immediately attentive. "Oh..." he smiled, laughing. "What do you have to say to that Miss Clara?" he said, his tone of voice quiet and filled with sudden interest.

She bit her lip, shaking her head and looking at him warily. "I told you so."

* * *

><p>"The blood belongs to Professor Mahler, died just this week actually. Committed suicide." Alexei explained to them in his office downtown. He worked for the Manhattan Police, having to get stuck with the position of talking to people and making phone calls.<p>

"No, it wasn't a suicide; somebody _sent us his blood._" The Doctor clarified, standing up from his chair. He had been tired of sitting; he had waited two hours doing so, and his companion unfortunately had to put up with the man's impatience.

"I'm sorry Doctor, but that's what investigators found out, gun in left hand. Claimed he killed himself."

"Oh, yeah, alright, so he killed himself, and while dead sent us a lovely painting of his blood, Alexei _we got this evidence today._" The Doctor sounding exasperated, Oswin sitting silently in the chair next to him.

"I don't know what to tell you other than the information that investigators have found." the officer shook his head. The Doctor sighed.

"What did Mahler teach? He was a professor, correct?"

Alexei nodded his head. "He taught Arts History at Prescott."

"...can we take a look inside his classroom?" Oswin blurted out suddenly. "I just...I want to look for anything suspicious."

Alexei nodded his head. "Of course."

* * *

><p>"This...looks like an ordinary classroom, nothing new." Oswin raised her eyebrows as The Doctor unlocked the door. It was simple, dust-collecting bookshelves with numerous art history textbooks, his things still sitting on his desk, yet to be collected. She spotted a week old newspaper sitting on his desk, and she read the title. <em>Kate Lethbridge-Stewart Releasing New Works of Art For Manhattan Exhibit. <em>A bit of a long title she thought, but it was self-explanatory. Disregarding the paper, she looked around the classroom attentively, wondering if there would be anything of use to the mystery they were trying to solve.

"Hey, look at this." she motioned towards a series of tri-fold poster projects displayed in the far corner of the room. She read the title of the first one. "_Found Works of Art__: Bad Wolf._" she read in a quiet voice, looking at the printed pictures displayed. In the middle was the main picture of the painting, found on the Internet. Oswin looked at it carefully. In the picture stood a beautiful girl, with eyes as gold as her hair, and behind her, two words that looked as if they had been slaughtered on. _Bad Wolf. _Oswin looked at the next one. _Found Works of Art: The Girl Who Waited. _It's painting portrayed a little redhead asleep in a garden atop of a suitcase. Oswin smiled, the next tri-fold posted catching her attention. _Found Works of Art: Come Find Me. _The title was circled in red marker, the picture displaying numerous versions of the same girl in different time periods. It was beautiful. ..._Come Find Me. _Clara stood stiff. The same words written on blood. She glanced down at the bottom. _Fun Fact: "Come Find Me" will be making it's first public debut at Manhattan's Grand Hall Exhibit October Eleventh. _

Clara froze.

_That's today. _

"Doctor..." she breathed, motioning him to come over. "Come Find Me isn't...a message...it's a painting. A painting that I think somebody's out to steal." she stared at the title, the words_ Come Find Me _circled in bright red marker. "Professor Mahler wasn't killed because they wanted him dead, he was killed so his killer could lead us here." The Doctor looked over her shoulder at the project, Oswin hastily running over to the desk and grabbing the newspaper, reading the fine print. "Today, curator Kate L. Stewart holds the honors of debuting three long-lost paintings: _A Church on a Hill, Washed in Bronze, and the most popular, standing at a price of nearly 150 million, Come Find Me, the artist an anonymous monk with origins from Cumbria in the year 1207._" She read slowly and carefully, stopping to catch her breath. "That's what those files were about." she bit her lip. She looked at The Doctor. "So...? What do you think they're going to do?"

"What do criminals usually do?"

"...I don't know. Come early?"

"Nope. Keep thinking."

"Just...steal it and cause a scene?"

"Too difficult to get away with. What's a way that's completely not suspicious and yet brilliant at the same time?"

"I don't know! Um...make a copy of the painting and replace the real one?"

"Correctamundo!" The Doctor exclaimed, adopting a look of distaste. "A word that I have _never _used before, and hopefully never will again." he muttered, narrating to himself, then beaming at his confused companion. "Clara, you're brilliant." he smiled, kissing her forehead, to which she replied to by slapping him in the face. The Doctor stood agape for a moment, taking it all in. "_Ow!_" he yelled, disregarding his shocked companion and running out of the classroom rather awkwardly. Nevertheless, she continued to follow him.

While following him down the hallway, Clara had this unusual feeling of somebody watching her, which did make her feel uneasy. Clara was always one to disregard those kinds of things, but she couldn't help but feel somebody's eyes on her neck. She turned around, only to see a lady at the copier, wearing a suit and sporting a short haircut. She smiled politely at her, almost _too _politely, at which Clara shuddered and only turned around to catch up with The Doctor. "So-? she asked once she was practically running to him in the parking lot. "Where are we going now?"

The Doctor only got into his car, Clara right beside him, still searching him for answers. He put the key into ignition. "Where are we going now, Clara Oswald?" he announced, smiling. "We're going to do a bit of shopping."


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter Seven**_

"We just found out our most crucial piece of information and you want to go _shopping_?" Clara scoffed, trying to catch up with The Doctor in the department store parking lot.

"The crucial piece of information can wait." The Doctor replied. "And besides, I need a new suit for the debut reception."

"You already have like a million." Clara muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes.

"True...but, none of them have the classic vitality and glamor that I'm aiming for." he retaliated, defending himself in that witty incisive tone that Clara was very much annoyed with in sharing a long-term job partnership. He opened the door for her as she arched an eyebrow at his sudden gentleman behavior, for she had noticed him being rather analytical around her. _Thinks he's so charming and clever... _Clara growled under her breath, her mind fighting off the unforgiving nostalgia that made her want to go back to the small components of time in which they could be together, her and The Doctor, just them, talking, teasing each other. She didn't have the heart to convince herself that she truly did care for him, and she certainly didn't have the heart to convince herself that he cared for her in return. It seemed too naive to imagine a life that encircled around being romantic to one's significant other, Clara saw it as simply fictional. There were more important things to worry about, and with a profession such as hers, she certainly didn't have time to think about such fictional things.

The Doctor, who seemed all of a sudden enlightened by the materialistic content of a twenty-first century department store, started towards the men's department for a simple suit and tie. Clara, however, lingering back a bit, showed her greatest level of apathy towards his unexpected interest. Slacks, blazers, undershirts, and bow ties, The Doctor grabbed whatever seemed decent to the eye. He pulled items that piqued his sense of fashion off of their hangers and draped them over his forearm, and when he ran reached his capacity of being a practical human wardrobe, he gave them to Clara, who wasn't too satisfied with having to hold his bearings.

Once he was finished with his scattering about, The Doctor walked himself over to the long hallway of dressing rooms, the only one available without a working light bulb. He tried the switch, toggling it for a few seconds before shrugging to himself and throwing the clothes carelessly down on the vacant chair, treating them as if they held no value whatsoever. He closed the door behind him, leaving Clara by herself in the empty corridor, the sound of ruffling fabric the only noise Clara could hear from him. "Why don't you wait for a dressing room with a _working _light bulb?" she asked him, fixing her hair in the mirror at the end of the hallway.

"Waiting requires patience, and patience..." The Doctor pulled his shirt off. "...is for wimps." he finished, Clara scoffing in reply.

She furrowed her brow. "But you need _light_ to see if the suit looks good on you," she answered back, raking her fingers through her long chestnut hair. There was silence on the other side of the door, The Doctor suddenly opening it to reveal his bare chest, all for the purpose of giving Clara a defending glare. "Everything looks good on me." he retorted, closing the door and continuing to change. Clara, however, still taken aback by his sudden appearance of being half-naked in front of her, blinked a few times in an emotionless state. "I never knew you had muscles." she said flatly, turning back around to stare at her reflection in the mirror.

"Well, I do."

"I never knew that you worked out in the first place."

"Well, I do."

"Thought that you just...stayed in all day reading the infelicitous murder romance novels of Melody Malone."

"Well, I-wait, wha-" The Doctor sputtered. "No I don't!"

Clara laughed flirtatiously. "Thought you were just as skinny as a stick."

"Oi, shut up!"

She smiled in content, for teasing him was her guilty pleasure.

After a few minutes of pointless yet entertaining arguments, he opened the door of the tiny dressing room, a nice suit framing his physique and a black silk bow tie underneath his collar. "So, how do I look?" he asked, giving her a grin. He twirled around a bit to show off his tuxedo, Clara slowly nodding her head in approval, for he wasn't too bad at choosing his own attire. "On a scale of one to ten...?" she trailed off, arching an eyebrow as she analyzed him head to toe. "...eleven." she smirked. The Doctor laughed in reply, giving her a charming little grin before caring for her necessities. "Now it's you're turn."

"Excuse me?"

"You need a new dress."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"But why?"

"Why not?"

"Are you paying?"

"Hell no."

"Then no."

"Oh, please?"

"You pay."

"But I don't want to!"

"Then I'm not buying anything."

"Oh...fine." he answered stubbornly, furrowing his brow. "I'll pay." he admitted, Clara nodding her head in approval before leaving the long line of dressing rooms to go find a new dress. She scanned through the clothing rack of formal attire, her hands working fast as she disapproved of each one, for they just didn't seem to catch to her interest. She wondered why he wanted a new dress for her in the first place, whether he wanted her to look nice or he was just insulting the choices of clothing she already had; it could be seen from both perspectives. She finally set her decision on a red dress with a tea length skirt and a wedding band collar, checking the tag to assure herself of the right size and looking at it for several seconds before shrugging her shoulders. It could do. She pushed past The Doctor who was still waiting in the hallway of the dressing rooms as she shut the door behind her, hastily removing her blouse and skirt before tugging the dress over her head. She gave a look of disapproval at the mess that lay around her, the rejected clothes and The Doctor's previous ones lay askew on the floor, for she dreaded anything that was other than tidy. The room was dark, but the light coming from the hallway was enough for her to see her faint reflection in the mirror before her.

She pulled her hair up into a messy bun, some strands of hair still loose at the nape of her neck, but overall she looked formally decent. Her makeup was still on from this morning, and her heels were still supporting her weight, and Clara wasn't one to care obsessively for the sake of vanity, so without a second thought she opened the door, the light leaving her in a temporarily blind state as The Doctor looked at her blankly. She raised an eyebrow at his reaction, wondering if she looked good or if he was just new to seeing girls in formal party dresses."...yowza." he muttered under his breath, admitting to himself that she actually looked...really pretty.

"Oh, shut up." she shook her head, grabbing his clothes and stuffing them into his arms, then taking her own and closing the door behind her. "We don't have time to change back because we have a debut reception to go to, and it starts at seven, and it's..." she checked her watch. "Six forty-three." she smiled at him politely, pushing past him to the cash register. The Doctor however, stayed behind for a bit, taking in the fact that he'd never seen Clara like this before, all dressed up and such. It felt unusual to him, he felt nervous around her on a regular basis, but this? This was a different kind of nervous.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Chapter Eight_**

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Smith." Vastra commented as she took a sip from her flute glass, staring at them with the utmost respect. Vastra was a member of the committee that incorporating the paintings for display, sitting with the apparent couple and her wife Jenny at the same table at the reception. Jenny was the sweetest, always bringing up conversation topics at the time in which the talk between them had reached a deafening silence, which happened rather often. (Seven so far, Clara had been counting.) "Oh, no-" Clara started, shaking her head incredulously. "We're not married-" she stopped mid-sentence when she felt The Doctor nudge her leg gently with his, a sign of which to either shut up or come up with a good excuse for the one that she had already started. "...yet." she put in quickly, smiling as if nothing were wrong, and carefully sliding her hands behind her back, she transferred her mother's ring from her middle to ring finger, just to be safe. "Yeah, we're...um...getting married next August." she added, making Vastra and Jenny grin with delight.

"So, tell me, how did you propose to her?" Jenny asked with a curious eye, The Doctor's expression fading from content to a nervous grin.

"Oh, um..." he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck, a gesture that usually meant that he was severely under pressure, at least that's what Clara had gotten out of it. "I proposed to her at a small café, actually, it was where we first met." The Doctor said smoothly, glancing over at Clara for only a mere second before she had started to blush. _He still remembers that utterly claustrophobic café?_ She thought dubiously, for even though he was lying, he got the rest of the facts true. It made her feel weird to know that he still remembered where they first met, she at least thought that he would forget by now.

Vastra and Jenny sighed in the apparent 'cuteness' of the two, Clara's mind racing with thoughts of utter disgust. She couldn't imagine marrying a fool like him, let alone pretending to be his fiancé. But, as always, Clara took this job at TARDIS seriously, and that meant at least putting some effort into letting The Doctor and herself have the least possible light of suspicion, away from attention; they had to look like they were any other normal spectator wanting to look at the monotonous beauty of paint on canvas, something that Clara didn't exactly take a particular interest to in the first place. "Oh, where's out waitress-? I could use another drink..." Vastra said as a side comment, looking around for some assistance but seeing no waiters around their corner of the large event's center.

"Oh, I'll look for her, she should be here somewhere." Clara put in suddenly, scooting out of her chair and smiling politely towards her, Vastra giving her best thanks as the young TARDIS detective lightly put her hand on The Doctor's shoulder. "I'll...I'll be right back." she assured them, walking away from the table and making her way through the crowd. Clara had hardly ever attended parties, not like she wasn't invited every so often, it's just that she never took a decent interest into social outings with drinking and just having a good time. For her, the definition of a 'good time' consisted of reading, and every so often, annoying The Doctor. Clara took in a sharp breath at the thought of it. Why did bothering the life of her idiotic co-worker bring a smile to her face? Or more so, why did she like it when he would react to it wittingly? Her questions seemed to hold no answer, Clara simply shaking her head as her mind shifted from her prime reason of getting up in the first place to a familiar face she spotted at one of the many buffet tables.

_She was the same woman I saw from that school. _Clara thought as she carefully came up beside her, just to reassure herself that she indeed was the same lady she had saw at the copy machine, her pixie cut and her red lipstick, her age determined, for she seemed as if she were in her forties, but then again she could be much older. Clara cringed as the lady tuned her head to face her, the same plastered smile on her face as Clara smiled nervously back. "Hello, I'm sorry, but have we met before?" she asked kindly, her voice piercing in Clara's mind. She nodded her head quickly. "Yes, I believe so, I saw you at Prescott..." she whispered back, and not intentionally, she just seemed quite shy at the time.

The woman smiled back. "Miss Kizlet." she offered her hand, to which Clara took hesitantly, her hand unusually cold. Clara only smiled. "You need to be careful around this place, Oswald," she said in a hushed voice, taking a sip from her wine glass. "Can't trust anyone, you know?"

Clara tried to gulp back her fear, for then she realized that this woman was far from suspicious. "How do you know my name?" she asked quietly.

Miss Kizlet only smiled back politely, turning back and walking into the crowd of people, Clara standing in her spot, as if she were a little girl who had gotten lost in a department store. _Could she be a part of the burglary plan? _Clara asked herself, her mind drawing a blank.

Suddenly, Clara saw someone familiar in the corner of her eye, his white hair and icy blue eyes catching her attention as Clara stared at him dubiously. _The Editor? _she asked herself, ducking behind a pillar as she watched him talking to another man in a black suit, his hair a subtle brown and his expression serious as he nodded his head, making sure nobody spotted him as he nonchalantly strolled to one of the back rooms of the event center, Clara raising her eyebrows as she saw The Editor leave his spot, his eyes meeting hers for a millisecond before she turned away, her pants quiet and nervous. He had definitely seen her.

She shook her head, glancing towards the direction of The Doctor's table. Should she ask for help? She turned back towards the back room in which the man had entered, sighing to herself in regret as she started walking towards the door, carefully looking around to see if any eyes were on her as she pushed it open, closing it quickly in relief. It was too late to go back now, and if she had asked The Doctor to come with her, she would lose time. She silently walked down the hallway attached to the room, footsteps being heard before her as she followed them carefully, eventually leading her to a wooden door. Clara stared at it for a moment, then hearing muffled voices coming from inside as she curiously pressed her ear to the key hole, her breaths becoming light as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the voices becoming lucid.

_"Where's the counterfeit?" _A harsh voice asked in a rough tone of voice.

_"It's in the car. Tasha wouldn't give me the keys until she knew that they were out of the way." _

The harsh voice grunted in frustration. _"Well then, have Miss Kizlet keep an eye on them! I'll find Tasha and get the counterfeit painting myself." _

_"Fine, your decision Walter. Not mine." _

_"Oh, shut your mouth Harold. You'll be thanking me when that painting sells for millions." _

She heard a scoff coming from the other man. _"And may I ask, where are the guards that are supposed to be protecting this fine work of art?" _He asked with an unusual sarcasm and overuse of a professional tone.

Walter laughed. _"Good and dead; taken care of."_

And with that, Clara heard another door slam shut, and footsteps coming towards her. She panicked, hiding behind another corner as Harold walked past her, oblivious of her presence as he turned the other corner, Clara sighing quietly as she counted to ten, making sure he was gone before she vacated her hiding spot. She looked back at the wooden door, silently approaching it and looking in the keyhole, seeing an empty and awfully quiet room, and without hesitation, attempted opening the door, seeing that it was locked.

Without any disappointment, she pulled out a hairpin from her up-do, biting her lip at the pain of hair being pulled from her scalp, taking it in her tiny fingers and unlocking the door without any trouble. Clara had become rather acquainted with the skill of unlocking doors, it was a lesson that was basically required to sneaking around. Her hand found its way to the doorknob, turning it as it made an unforgivable creak, Clara grimacing as she pushed it open, scanning at the contents of the room as she shut it behind her.

Before her was a large painting on an easel, the colors bright and simply beautiful as Clara approached it with quiet, careful footsteps. She suddenly found herself smiling at the painting, a large garden with old creased red leaves and sunlight painted on with crimson and yellow, numerous girls in different pinafores hiding behind trees and stone fountains, fences and swing-sets, each girl different, and yet each one with the same curly long chocolate hair. Clara would say that those girls looked just like her, a small laugh escaping her lips as her fingertips stroked the gold framing. The whole scene seemed calming, Clara's mind drifting away from her chaotic reality into the life of the painting, capturing her into its subtle autumn ambiance before her life was turned from a still moment into a minatory hell.

Suddenly, a black-gloved hand clamped down over her mouth, Clara gasping in fear as it started to pull her away from the painting and towards the back door, her tiny hands trying to free herself as the thief's arm tightened around her throat, causing her to cough for air as the back door shut her away, her brain racing with questions as her mind collapsed down amongst itself. She screamed for help, only knowing that nobody with good intentions would ever hear her cry for help, her vision blurring and her eyes closing as the world to her started to seem awfully dark.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Chapter Nine_**

_She's been gone for too long. _

It wasn't obscure. It seemed as though every two minutes he'd find his eyes met with the face of his wrist watch, and he'd have to grimace at the fact that he and everyone else had been falling slowly into the depth of a New York City night, therefore the quality of being sober was becoming rather seldom to find. The waitress had came, yes, _forty-two_ minutes ago; just not the girl who went out to get her in the first place. _Two thousand five_ _hundred twenty seconds ago. _The Doctor analyzed. Two thousand five hundred twenty seconds without Clara sitting beside him, and to his surprise, he was starting to get apprehensive.

Once he had become aware of Clara's lingering absence, he could think of nothing else. So, for therapeutic reasons, he tried to take his mind off of her with a few minor pastimes. He tried to absorb himself into the story Vastra was telling the rest of their table, but he was misled instantly. (He wasn't sure if it was coming from her investigation accounts or a narrative of _"Chicago."_) He folded his napkin into a boat. He converted forty-two minutes into other measurements of time, which became essentially boring, even for a man like himself. He observed and gave deductive remarks towards the guests that happened to stroll by their table. _She's socially impaired, they seem awfully pretentious, he's certainly drunk-  
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"Doctor," Vastra interrupted him mid-thought. He squirmed in surprise, clumsily knocking his fork off of his plate, the clanger of metal on the floor making him cringe as Vastra only pulled her lips into a tight smile. "May I...talk to you for a moment?" she asked politely, scooting out of her chair as The Doctor only looked up at her in bewilderment before he snapped out out his gaze. "Oh, uh, yes of course." he replied as he stood up, pushing his chair in and following her to a vacated corner.

Vastra stared at him with curiosity as she asked, "Is everything alright? I apologize for my abrupt interruption, but you just seem..." she shook her head lightly, her eyes of a dark green looking at him as if he were an alien."...distracted." she finished, pursing her lips as he lent back a bit, sighing to himself in slight defeat. Vastra could tell that his mind was far from anything she could expect, with his tense shoulders and a wistful look in his eyes, almost as if he was watching something beyond the walls of the building.

"Was it that severe to the point in which you had to pull me aside?" he asked, his tone in resemblance to a boy who had just been caught by his mother.

"Well, we're standing here for starters, so I think you can interpret that answer for yourself." Vastra replied, a long and patient silence falling between the two.

"...it's...nothing." he denied hastily, scratching the back of his neck restlessly as he met her eyes, and when he did he couldn't do anything but look away, as if she could already see that he was without a doubt troubled. "...I'm just worried about Clara, that's all." he muttered, which was true, but there was still so much that Vastra didn't know. "She left the table almost an hour ago, and I'm just curious as to her whereabouts, a minor concern really." He tried to fill the gaps in with excuses, though the look she was giving him said that she wasn't taking them in satisfaction. "She's probably just partying, anyway, having at chat with some bloke." he added accidentally, temporarily unaware of the fact that they were still underneath an incognito. "No, not a bloke; definitely _not _a bloke," he said as his face adapted an expression of disgust. He couldn't picture the thought of seeing Clara with some other boy, and he didn't like the thought of it either. "Why should I be worried if she meets a bloke or not...?" he laughed it off nervously as Vastra eyed him suspiciously.

"...she is in fact you're fiancée...?" she hinted. The Doctor's expression was guilt ridden, almost as if he had been caught.

_Oh yeah, right. _He reminded himself briefly. _Me. Clara. Engaged. _He had to pretend that he and Clara were a blissful couple getting married, and with his mind spilling out their thoughts in front of Vastra, he wasn't painting his 'fiancée' the most loyal personality portrait. "Yes! She quite is, and that's _exactly_ the reason why I should be worried..." he trailed off, then realizing how horrible he was turning this situation into. "I should _probably_ shut my mouth now." he claimed aloud.

"Doctor, are you and Miss Clara having complications with your commitment towards one another?" Vastra asked, her tone of voice seeming deeply concerned.

"No! We're fine, honestly. Peachy keen. No counseling required." he assured her bleakly, for their conversation wasn't looking so positive. He wished he could just tell her the truth so she'd understand. He wished that he could just announce to her, _"No. I'm worried because she just wandered off to investigate without me and there's a reasonable chance that she could've gotten abducted." _He wanted to just tell it to her face. _"Oh, and we're not in love." _he wanted to add. But he couldn't, and there was a good chance that Vastra now saw Clara as some unfaithful minx.

The Doctor only sighed, and shaking his head in perturbation, he turned his heel and walked away into the crowd.

"Where are you going?" Vastra called out.

He looked up, his mind a disarray of his feelings and assumptions, and the pressure of Clara's life only made his heart race with an unhealthy speed as he replied, "To find Clara!"

Vastra was bewildered, for The Doctor's relationship with Clara seemed rather, well, interesting. She could clearly tell that it was existent, the glances that they shared with one another as they talked, the smiles that he gave her when she wasn't looking, it certainly didn't resemble any pretend play, it genuinely looked as if they loved each other. But then she'd question The Doctor's sayings, his worried tone as he suspected that maybe Clara was chatting with another man, it was unusual. She shook off the thoughts, for she didn't know the facets of their lives, and besides, it sounded as if the words had only slipped his mouth, as if they weren't even meant to exist. "Lies are words, words, words..." she muttered to herself before turning back around, casting one more skeptical glance towards the direction The Doctor had followed as she walked back to her seat.

_What was I thinking? _The Doctor berated himself as he hastily walked through the crowds of people. There had always been two types of people when it came to walking through crowds; you could be the type of person who moved _for _others, or the type of person whom others moved for _you_. And at the moment, The Doctor wasn't swerving around guests to waste time. _I sounded like me and Clara were having marriage problems, before an actual marriage. _He grunted in annoyance of himself, then taking in consideration his surroundings. People, guests, waiters, all swarming around him like insects; how could he find one girl in a frenetic crowd? He tried the strategy of standing on his toes and looking above everyone around him, then realizing that Clara, for a feisty girl her age, was unbelievably short.

A waitress carrying flute glasses raced past him promptly, The Doctor jerking back suddenly as he muttered his apologies, and accidentally running into another lady in the process. "I am so sorry..." he claimed as he looked her in the eye, her rather dark appearance scaring him as she only smiled grimly. "Careful darling," she said, quirking an eyebrow. His eyes widened as he stared at her, her violet dress and black laced sleeves making her look rather clandestine. "Tasha Lem." she introduced herself as she grinned flirtatiously as his cheeks puffed up with air, for he hadn't exactly planned for a meet and greet.

"Ah, lovely, alright, well, it was nice meeting you. Again, sorry for the shove, I'll just be off-"

"Oh, but we had only just met." she interrupted him, placing her drink on a miscellaneous table and eying him with a coquettish expression. "What's your name? I told you mine I expect a little something in return."

"Um, well...Doctor." he said hastily, scratching the back of his neck.

She arched an eyebrow. "...Doctor who?"

He shrugged as he smiled sheepishly, staring to turn away as he replied, "Just the Doctor."

"The Doctor..." she repeated, slurring his name with each letter as she wrapped her arms around his neck, The Doctor's expression faltering due to the rather uncomfortable circumstances. "How...mysterious. Sexy even." she whispered in his ear as The Doctor only cringed in reply, trying to squirm out of her grip. If only Vastra could see him now; she'd send him and Clara straight to a therapist.

"Yeah, well, alright. Okay. I have to go now-"

"I've never seen a man look as attractive in a bow-tie..." she said as she hooked her index finger behind his collar, tugging it harshly to the point in which there lips were only mere centimeters away. Clara only did that to him. It was practically her ritual. The Doctor could almost feel her smile. "And that chin, my my..." she observed leisurely, her fingertips tracing its shape and grazing against his skin.

"Really, Tash, pleasure meeting you, but-"

"Hm, Tash huh?" she replied. "Giving me nicknames already?"

"I really have to go-"

"Do you think it'll be that easy to escape me?" she hissed in his ear, a mischievous laugh escaping her lips. "I said the same thing to your precious little Clara."

His expression fell. "What-?"

But before he could receive an answer, he felt a sharp pain impale him through the stomach, his world seeming to collapse in on himself as his eyes drew themselves shut, his physique falling as Tasha caught him underneath the arm as she hoisted him upright. She hastily stuffed a serum injection back into her purse as the weight of the unconscious detective pulled her down like excess gravity, a few people starting to stare at the scene as she merely smiled back and replied, "Drunken men, they never change can they?" And with a light petty laugh she practically dragged his body to the nearest exit.

Once the cold breeze of the New York night could be felt against her skin, Tasha sighed in disgust of having to bear another man's weight. As the doors slammed behind her, she carelessly threw The Doctor's body onto the pavement, his emotionless form laying there as she pulled out her phone from her purse, dialing a number before holding it up to her ear. She searched the area that surrounded her, looking for any signs of movement or other people and to her pleasure, they were isolated. She then looked at his body lying limp on the ground and frowned, for he was good looking alright, but such a disappointment when it came to flirting.

"Hello?" another voice echoed through the other end, the tone rough and rude, but Tasha knew it well enough to trust the man behind it.

"He's taken care of." she replied. "I told you Kizlet was worthless, I actually get things done." she spat in addition. "We're waiting outside the West Wing of the building, so hurry up; I want my car back Simeon."

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><p><strong>AN: Okay, I thought that Tasha Lem was played exceptionally well by the wonderful Orla Brady in the most recent Christmas special, but I had always seen her more of as a villain character than an actual ally to The Doctor. Do Whoufflépuffs actually like her character...? I mean, with all the flirting and um, such going on between Tasha and The Doctor during that episode, I suppose Eleven x Clara shippers have their disputes about her, cause I know that I do. xD **

**But anyways, this is a Whoufflé fic in which Tasha Lem is a definite convict, and that's how I prefer to interpret her character. As always, thank you for all of the support that I've received during the course of this story! I'm actually not too sure where it's going to end, but for the time being, I'll just keep wandering into a wonderful unknown and see where it takes me! :D xD**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Violence contained in chapter. You have been warned.  
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**Also, it contains a lot of words. More than my usual chapter! But anyways, I've actually never written fight scenes, to my surprise, so I'll see how it goes...**

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><p><em><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>_

Clara's consciousness had started to recur, her mind trapped in its own haze as she slowly started to take in her surroundings. The collar's red fabric from her dress touched her neck as her brow furrowed in confusion, half-expecting herself to be dressed in an appropriate sleeping attire. _Had I had too much to drink...? _Clara thought to herself, longing for the taste of morning's coffee as her arms tried to extend themselves to stretch, but to her surprise, they wouldn't budge. She tried to move her legs, but they wouldn't move from their position either. Her eyes snapped open, a muffled gasp escaping her lips as she saw the state of herself. Her throat pleaded to scream, but her mouth was secured with a strip of silver duct tape, the adhesive cemented onto her skin.

Darkness overwhelmed her as an unfamiliar wave of claustrophobia washed over her like a tide, awakening, and frightening all at the same time. It didn't take long for her to realize that she was trapped in the trunk of a car, a rather claustrophobic car at the least. Her hands and legs were entrapped together by sisal rope, and she didn't have to see to feel the skin of her wrists and ankles redden and swell. Panic overtook her at an instant, Clara squirming uncontrollably in protest, and she was fully aware that flailing around was pointless, but she dreaded of cramped and restricted places; it drained her patience and ability to focus.

But what really lurched her heart out of her chest was the feeling of another hand next to hers. Clara's wrists were tied at her back, and the fact that she didn't have eyes at the other side of her head really gave her a blind viewpoint of the entire situation. _Oh my god. _She tried to gulp back her fear, closing her eyes and trying to breath normally. Somebody else was in this car, dead or alive, Clara didn't care; she was scared to death. She carefully extended her fingers, her whole hand shaking nervously, her skin meeting another, and jerking upwards in shock, Clara rammed her temple into the wall of the trunk. She groaned at the pain, hoping that this was all just a nightmare, hoping that she would just wake up to another miscellaneous morning, having to face John's idiotic energy consumptions once again.

She grew tired and impatient of the oblivion, so reaching her hand out from behind her just as she did before, with a calmer approach, Clara brushed her fingertips over the nameless hand of the person that lay just beside her. She didn't want to turn around instantly, she was afraid of what she might see. A dead corpse, perhaps, and considering the circumstances, the chances of that being her prison-mate was more than likely. She felt their rough skin, Clara cringing at the fact that people didn't moisturize more often, and then she felt the fabric of a cuff, as well as the familiar feeling of sisal rope. _Man. _She assumed, inhaling and exhaling in exasperation.

Unable to control her tolerance, Clara needed to figure out who she was stuffed in here with, and whether they were dead or alive. She uncomfortably rolled onto her other side, her arm colliding with the man's, and now facing the other way, Clara sighed. She could sense the body in front of her, the man's chest right before her face, and hesitating greatly, Clara grimaced as she pressed her ear to the fabric of his dress shirt. She could hear it, the man's heartbeat, and heaving a generous sigh of relief, she lifted her head from his undead chest, only to be surprised again. Clara didn't feel a neck tie, she figured he just wasn't wearing one, but when the tip of her ear skimmed against the silk around his neck, her mind defined it shape at an instant. _...bow-tie. _She thought to herself, her eyes widening. _No, it couldn't be._ She told herself in dubiety._ Lots of men wear bow-ties, right?  
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She carefully raised her head once more, and resting at the top of her head, was a certainly prominent jaw-line, and it almost felt familiar. _Chin. _Clara told herself, her hopes rising as a small smile appeared on her face. She desperately looked around for any signs of escape, or at least some light, her mind clicking into place when she remembered the tail-lights. Scooting herself upwards towards the left end of the car's trunk, she felt around for the panel that gave her access to the light's wires, and while trying to pry it off, she grimaced as her nail split in half. Clara cursed under her breath as she felt the blood run down her index finger, a sickly crimson liquid that she knew wasn't going to look appealing if she could look at it. Attempting to work without the convenience of her vision, she tried to avoid the stinging of her injury, her bloody hand successfully able to remove the right panel. "_Yes-!_" she practically hissed in achievement as she reached for the wires inside, ripping them out confidently piece by piece, like an animal slaughtering their prey. Her fingertips weakly pushed on the tail-lights exterior glass, and achieving no avail, she hastily tried to look for something sharp to shatter the glass with. Her mind raced with possibilities, each one being either unrealistic or just out of convenience. _Knife? _Impractical. _Scissors? _Illogical. _My bloody fists? _She clenched her hands together, the skin where her nail should be feeling awfully bare and bloody. _Nope. _

She groaned in aggravation. _What's sharp in here? _She asked herself restlessly. _There's got to be something- _

Then suddenly, like a light-bulb flashing in enlightenment in the depths of her brain, she got an idea. Awkwardly reaching down, Clara pried the left heel from her foot, and holding it behind her back between her tied-up hands, she stabbed it into the glass, the sound of shatters like music to her ears. Soft rays of light seeped through the damage from the outside world, Clara grinning proudly in accomplishment of her blind handy work, the tape around her mouth creasing with her smile.

But what made her even more happy was the face that she saw beside hers. His unconscious, stupid, idiotic face. His unbelievably thin eyebrows and his quiff of brown hair, his closed eyes that hid that beautiful shade of green. _John. _Clara had never been more relieved to see him, albeit the rather tragic state they were both in. She immediately curled up beside him, his soft shirt against her cheek as her mind released its haze. Sure, they were both stuck in the back of a car, but Clara was thankful enough to be stuck with him instead of some foreign stranger. Clara suddenly felt safe with him against her, comatose or lively, she didn't care.

Moments later, the sound of footsteps echoed through the broken glass, Clara's eyes widening as she hastily rolled around to peer through the uneven window. By the looks of it, they were just parked in a lot, surrounded by miscellaneous cars that probably didn't carry unconscious bodies in them; and in the corner of her eye, was a man leisurely strolling through. _An appliance man. _Clara thought to herself as she looked at his dusty blue uniform, feeling more confident by the second as she tried to scream through the tiny tail-light for his attention. The word _'help'_ muffled into the sound of _'__hummm' _as she tried to force her lips open, the man's grey eyes landing on hers as his face twisted into a concoction of fear and shock.

"Oh my god..." he muttered under his breath as he ran up to the car, squatting down to meet her level. "Are you hurt?" he asked immediately, the girl's response anything but understandable. "Don't worry, I got tools," he motioned towards the large metal box that he lugged behind him. "I'll get you out, just hang in there, alright?" he asked, Clara only nodding in reply as he vanished from her view, the sound of metal clanking against each other filling her ears as her worry started to vanish. They were going to get out of this, alive.

She waited patiently as the nameless appliance man worked at freeing them from the car, Clara longing for that feeling of standing on her two feet again, her muscles independent and her blood doing anything it desired besides simply pouring out of the tear in her left hand. Light suddenly blinded her eyes as the car opened, Clara squinting incredulously as the man stared back at her, scruff framing his disturbed face as he instantly helped the young detective out of the car, her tied-up legs swinging over the edge as she hoisted herself unto the pavement, her left foot cold against the stone as her other wore her remaining high heel. Her legs were numb and sore from the lack of activity, but her heart was nothing but pounding as she stared at the appliance man before her.

"_Man,_" he muttered, looking at the sight of her. "Are you okay? Here, let me remove the rope around your wrists," he ushered her hastily as she tottered around, gasping at the sight of her bloody hands. _Does it look bad? _She wanted to ask, the tape around her mouth restricting her from doing so. She also wanted to add that her name wasn't Man, nor was she one herself. Despite the mess, he cut the rope from her wrists, Clara breathing a sigh of relief as she stretched her arms out, the appliance man then proceeding to cut the rope from her ankles. _He better not look up my skirt. _She thought to herself in disgust, but nevertheless, she was getting help. She was still living. Her legs now free, Clara grinned, a thank you ready to be said as she turned around to face him, only to be met with the horrifying sight of a man who was once very much alive.

Clara muffled out a scream as she saw the knife stab through his upper shoulder, the appliance man yelling in pain and fear as he crumpled to the ground, his hand shaking as it tried to cover the bleeding wound. Her head snapped up, her eyes widening as she saw a woman in black standing before her, two men standing guard as she leisurely twirled the weapon in between her fingertips. "Hello darling," she greeted her darkly, a terrifying grin spreading throughout her expression. "I see you've gotten yourself out, you _naughty _little girl."

She was interrupted by the sound of another muffled scream, both women's heads turning towards the open car as John's restless body jerked around in horror, his green eyes wide with fear as he looked between their captor and Clara. "Oh, you've woken up too," the woman muttered in disgust, Clara immediately trying to reach for him, only to be held back by a strong grip from the man behind her. He yanked her back by the hair harshly as she whimpered from the torment, dragging her away from the vehicle as her eyes witnessed the other man pull John out of the trunk with ease, her eyes starting to water as she watched him. The woman between them smiled gingerly, walking up to John and gently peeling the tape off of his mouth, as if she had almost cared for him. "Hello stranger," she flirted, John only gaping at her with shock.

"Tasha...y-you can't do this..." he stuttered, Clara's eyes filling with rage as she wanted to scream. How did he know her? She tried to release herself from the man's grip, receiving no avail as he only held her stronger, Clara desperately trying to yell herself out. Tasha glanced back at Clara as if she were a mere bug, and making her way towards her, her face twisted into a look of disgust as she pinched the corner of the duct tape around her mouth, ripping it off of her skin at an instant as Clara shrieked in pain.

"_DON'T YOU DARE HURT HER!_" John shouted at Tasha, Clara's eyes tearing up as her lips stung from surprise, her hands shaking unceasingly as her knees pleaded to collapse from underneath her. She couldn't take it, not Tasha, or the aching, but the fact that John was seeing her like this. Weak. Defeated. Defenseless. It was like her walls that she kept herself in had fallen, revealing nothing but a coward. "Oh, you can't take a little pain, darling?" Tasha soothed her, tracing the knife along her bottom lip, Clara jerking back without thinking, only to have the blade glide through and into her skin. A trickle of blood ran down her chin, Tasha only gasping in sarcasm as she said, "Now whose fault was that, now?"

John was now screaming at her to stop, trying to fight against the man who held him in place. Clara wasn't even paying attention to him now, the gash on her lower lip starting to swell as Tasha laughed at her mockingly. She then turned around to face her partner, cocking her head to the right. "Oh, I was only playing." Tasha told John innocently, strolling up to him and stroking his cheek. "Harmless, really." she whispered in his ear, gently sliding her fingertips between the buttons of his shirt, meeting with his bare skin. John only closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to recede his anger.

Clara rolled her eyes in exasperation of Tasha's behavior, the verge of death behind her like the edge of a cliff as her captor flirted with her partner. Yet something ignited inside of her like a flame, a concoction of outrage and misplacement; she didn't know what it was right away but when she found out, Clara's cheeks suddenly flushed pink from chagrin. _No. _She thought to herself, accidentally biting her swollen lip from the displeasure. _It can't be envy. _

"Stop it." she found herself saying under her breath, instantly regretting her words as they left her lips. She didn't care if Tasha toyed around with him. She _shouldn't _be able to care.

...then why did she?

John stared at her, his eyes confused to see her speaking up for him. She'd never one acted so protective and weak in all his time knowing her, it was almost as if he saw someone else in those eyes of hers. Tasha stared at her as well, but in more of a murderous way due to the circumstances. "Oh..." she purred in realization. "You don't like it when I do that, do you?" she asked Clara, switching sides once again, a habit that they both were growing tired of. "As if your heart had space for such an oblivious man." she hissed at her, Clara cringing at her wine-stained teeth and her breath that reeked of alcohol.

"Are you enjoying this?" Clara tried asking confidently, her voice only coming out as a mere croak.

Tasha laughed, a smile stretching her face. "...you have no idea, sweetheart, how much _bliss _I'm having right here."

Clara had it with this woman. She screamed as she threw herself at her, her remaining heel being used as impalement to the man's foot behind her, causing him to stumble just enough for her to rip free of his grip. Clara pinned Tasha down by her foot, the heel of her shoe pressing down forcefully on her wrist, her hand clutching over the handle of her knife. Tasha protested against the small girl instantly, pushing her off easily as she kicked her stomach, Clara slumping to the ground immediately as she hugged her knees to her abdomen from the pain. Tasha, now hovering over her with a knife at the girl's throat, was determined to slice her senseless for the sake of her life and the reward that was to wash over her if the girl had died because of her.

To see the blood that caked over the detective's chin made her grin, as if its sight were a mere victory in her eyes. She was hungry for more, to see her suffer, to see her defeat. Tasha had always seen stolen things as the best type of superiority, as a sign of her strength that nothing would get in the way of what she wanted.

Clara grunted as she kneed her in the stomach, stumbling her backwards as she let out a puff of air, for she was a persistent one, this woman.

Meanwhile, the man who had let go of her had primarily overcame his minor injury, then staring at the two in shock, one defending, and one trying to kill. He hastily took the pistol out of his belt and pointed it at the both of them, unable to aim it precisely at Clara as they kicked and shoved each other around without cease. Tasha would be furious if he so much as teased her about pointing the pistol at her, she would become an uncontrollable (And rather scary) hellion if he actually did, which in this case, the proof before his eyes did not beg to differ. He staggered on his feet as he approached the two women, either of them unable to bring their attention to the weapon in his hands as they attacked each other, one half struggling and in the next second beating; and in the man's eyes he saw nothing but wild animals.

His index finger rested impatiently on the trigger of his pistol, his mind spinning as he tried to find a fair aim to shoot, but it seemed as though Tasha was forever in his range. He wasn't a bad gunman himself, but when his target was practically being strangled by the woman he wanted to keep alive, he found the whole ordeal as an unfair game. _Just- shoot! _He snapped at himself.

Seconds before it had seemed as though Tasha was going to win this one after all, Clara trembling underneath Tasha's seizing grip, her filthy hands coated with stale blood and dust from the lot's stone floor, weakly pushing back Tasha as she held the knife before her face, Clara trying helplessly to shove her away, and then, one single shot was all it took for Tasha's anger to vanish away.

The sound of the gun rang in Clara's ears as her eyes widened at the scene, the woman who was once gaining her power suddenly the weakest form on Earth. Her sneer untwisted into an expression of sheer shock as knife slipped from her hand, Clara jerking her head leftwards as the metal blade clanged helplessly beside her. Tasha fell onto her side as her blood started to seep through her side, Clara watching in horror as she crumpled powerlessly.

The man before them was speechless in regret, his work only proving to himself that he had false aim. He hadn't meant to kill her, but mistakes could never erase themselves entirely. _What have I done? _He simply asked himself, breathing heavily as he looked at Tasha's dying body in terror. He didn't even notice as Clara carefully picked herself up from the floor, and approaching him silently, she let out a yell of an undying anger as she pushed him against Tasha's car, the man gasping in surprise as she struck him out cold, her elbow growing sore as for the fact that she used it as her main defense. Clara didn't like using physical weapons such as guns or knives, in fact, she didn't so much as enjoy using _herself _as a weapon, but glancing back at the blade that glared from the spot Tasha had dropped it, she was suddenly glad she hadn't picked it up.

Nonetheless, she carefully took the fallen pistol for the sake of precautions, the device feeling awfully heavy in her tiny hand, and as she turned around, she wasn't all that surprised to find a hand suddenly clamping at her throat, yet another gun aimed at her temple. In the corner of her eye, she could see John lying limp on the ground, alive, but beaten up harshly for the reasons of keeping him useless. Clara's eyes quickly darted to yet another one of Tasha's backup men, his blue eyes insane as his chest rose and receded, the barrel of the gun aimed directly towards Clara's brain, the one thing that was really keeping herself alive at this point. "Think you were going to get away with this one, did you?" he hissed at her, the sight of her choking playing through his eyes like a beloved cinema film.

Clara had a gun in her hand, she could well pull the trigger and let this man drown into a pool his own blood, but she resented herself from doing so. She wasn't a murderess. Nor did she want to become one. _Don't shoot the gun don't shoot the gun think of something else think think think think think think- _Her mind raced an exhilarating speed of dexterity, her mind snapping into place as she decided to put some good use to her other elbow, for she was starting to feel a bit uneven with one sore and the other unhurt. The man staggered backwards from the impact of her strike, Clara instantly using the gun to knock him out unconscious as she forcefully brought it upon his skull. He fell to the ground immediately as Clara exhaled slowly, the scene sinking into her mind as she took it all in. The sight that was sprawled out before her was tragic, a chaos of her strength and guilt released into the air.

_Two unconscious men. One accidentally shot woman. One murdered appliance man. One horribly beaten up me. One-  
><em>

_Oh my god. _

"John!" she immediately screamed in realization, running up to him and kneeling down to scan for any injuries. He looked terrible, a gash on his right cheek, his hair tousled and his eyes tired, yet all the same, blinking back up at her in confusion. Clara held his face delicately between her two hands, breathing out a generous sigh as he mumbled, "Clara...?"

She blinked back her tears as she held him close, her bruised cheek brushing up against his soft hair as she replied, "John, oh god, I thought I might've lost you." She cried into his shoulder, the man trying to take it all in as he looked around the quiet lot. Just minutes ago, he was screaming for Clara's life, and now, here she was, alive, and sobbing heavily onto the fabric of his expensive tux.

"You were worried about _me?_" he sputtered out weakly, allowing a chuckle to be released from his tongue. "Clara, you scared me to death."

She only shook her head as she pulled away, wiping her tears with the back of her hand as she muttered out, "Here, let's just get you out of those ropes." He could only agree as she took Tasha's knife from the ground, now cold from its isolation, and with a shaky hand, she carefully cut the sisal rope free from his hands and ankles, John sighing from the freedom as he stretched his muscles outwards. She helped him to his feet, his legs shaky as if he had forgotten how to stand, and their hands intertwined with one another's, he asked, "Are you alright?"

She heaved a sigh, looking down at herself. "Well, I've been strangled, kicked in the stomach, cut in the lip, and my nail is split in half," she raised her hand hand almost as if she were showing off a ring. "Eh," she shrugged her shoulders. "I've had better days."

John shook his head, laughing at her as he wrapped his arms around her gently, Clara generously accepting his hug as she smiled into his chest. "Don't _ever _do that to me again." he murmured into their embrace.

"What, save your life?" Clara scoffed.

"No," John replied, his tone serious. "...don't...don't scare me like that."

Clara sighed, burying her face into his shoulder and replying, "Okay. I won't. I promise."

Both beaten up, both horribly caked in dust and dried from blood, and yet they still found the courage to smile. At that moment, they weren't Oswin or The Doctor, the names that defined them well but not entirely, they both were Clara and John, both unbelievably human and yet insane enough to be called alien.

And Clara was happy enough for that.

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><p><strong>Next Time: Clara tries to figure out who exactly John is to her, all the while dealing with the aftermath of chaos. (...primarily Whoufflé, though.)<br>**


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter Eleven **_

Lights of blue and red played across Clara's face, the sound of sirens causing her ears to ring. Her two feet swung from the perch on the back of the ambulance, a shock blanket hung loosely over her shoulders. The sight of Simeon and the rest of his kind being dragged away in handcuffs had finally put Clara's mind in a state of peace, at least for the time being. The Editor's eyes of a glistening ice blue grazed over Clara's for a millisecond, a shiver twisting up her spine like a snake, to which the man only looked away gruffly as the officer led him into his vehicle of such authority. John had gone inside the building to talk with the chief of police, leaving her alone in the ambulance with only the gusts of wind to talk to her. She didn't mind, of course she didn't mind. Not really, anyway.

Her body was patched up like a worn-out doll, stiff and dry, parts of her skin tender and weak from Tasha's undeniable rage. She could hardly lift her arm without the struggle, as it bothered her greatly that her freedom to move was limited by the work of two nurses. An infinite quantity of gauze was tightly wrapped around her elbows and knees where she had either been cut or bruised, making her joints lose its purpose to its deplorable wrath. Whereas John had only received petty band-aid treatment, the envy within her boiling.

_John. _The name repeated several times inside of her head, as if it had become a broken record player, and in all honesty, she wouldn't bother fixing it. Never had she felt so relieved and happy to know that he was with her, as if she had forgiven all of his idiocy at that point. Truth be told, Clara had actually found amusement out of his stupidity rather than annoyance; it was an actuality that had developed over time. It was unusual, however, that Clara found herself thinking about her bow-tie devoted companion so much, as if he had entirely consumed her thoughts. The question was, did he _deserve _to overtake her thoughts?

Her mind had refused to answer.

Her muscles slowly building the urge to rise up against its stationary conditions, Clara uneasily stood up onto the asphalt of the parking lot, wincing at the sudden movement. Awkwardly clambering upon her short inflexible legs, she made her way towards the double doors of the building, at which two female officers immediately questioned her attempt of entering. "Clara Oswald, TARDIS private eye, do you honestly need an ID before you let me in?" she queried in exasperation. "There's still a party going on inside, you know, and I'm not going to sit around here doing nothing."

"Apologies, ma'am, just doing our job." one officer said.

"May I take your shock blanket?" the other offered.

"No thank you," Clara replied, clutching onto its soft fabric. "I'm cold." she claimed, and with that, she pushed past the two officers and made her way into the entrance hallway of the building, the sound of soft music filling her ears as a golden hue of light tinted the view before her. The sound of her rhythmic footsteps were the only sound to accompany her as she slowly made her way down the corridor. The remainder of the party mainly consisted of those who genuinely held a passion for the arts, for she couldn't blame the others who had simply left after the police stimulated a chaos as well as a surplus of arrests. Numerous officers remained scattered about the area, some scouring their suspicious, others sipping a champagne while laughing heartily at the ones who cared to make light conversation with them. The painting, which had been successfully kept unharmed, hung on the north wall of the building, its pigments of paint glossed over by the reflection from a glass case, two officers at either side; there was certainly no surprise at their presence. Clara could sense a hint of uneasiness in the air, as if worry had still lingered between each and every being in the room. A crime was attempted before their oblivious eyes, they held the right to be troubled.

Clara gasped as she felt a hand rest on her shoulder, immediately swiveling around to collide into none other than her bruised-faced partner. She exhaled heavily, the shock in her receding as her heart continued to pump. "My god, you scared me." she closed her eyes, raising her hand to her forehead as John only grimaced in reply. "Sorry," he replied quickly. "Still rather sensitive due to-" he frenetically gestured towards her beaten-up physique. "...all of this."

"Yes, thank you for pointing it out." she huffed back dryly. The past few hours played repeatedly inside of her mind, like nightmares trying to penetrate what was left of her blissful illusions. Her own blood had seeped through what would now become scars, permanent markings of a criminal who was now dead. Just the thought of it made her terrified. "How did this happen so quickly?" she asked in astonishment, suddenly wiping her eyes furiously with the blanket as they soaked up her tears. Hours ago, they were okay; in fact, they were _shopping _in a department store like any other unharmed human being. Since then, they'd both been drugged, stuffed in the back of a car, each receiving a decent amount of injuries during the process. The two scenes were rather contrasting. "...you could've died right then and there." she shot out. "If Tasha hadn't been so damn attracted to your pretty face, she would've shot it."

John didn't seem too offended, but he did reflect upon her words for a few quiet seconds. Then, instead of taking it as an insult, he considered it to be a compliment. "...so...you think I have a pretty face?" he responded as a sly grin spread across his face, Clara's only blushing a soft pink as she shoved him harshly. "You know what I mean." she mumbled back.

"Do I really?" he replied back, unwilling to let the subject go. "Because you've been awfully mean to me at times, and now with this kind of flattery, I find it rather bipolar." he shrugged innocently, Clara's anger bubbling up within her. She knew well enough that he was simply stating the truth, but sometimes she herself couldn't handle her own emotion fluctuations. At most times, slapping him in the face would've be an appropriate response to his honest yet entirely irritable comment, but instead, Clara kept her fingers knotted together.

"...am I really that mean?" she suddenly blurted out, looking down at her feet in regret of the question. _Of course you are. _She told herself, her heart seeming to sink down in weight of the guilt. _I hate him. I'm supposed to hate him. _

_It'd be better off if I did. _

_Love. _The word itself made Clara sneer in disgust. How had she had sworn to herself that life was not to be distracted by the antics of handsome boys and romantic interests; she was born to work, and that's what she had been telling herself all her life. Maybe she had forgotten what it felt like to be loved, because she suddenly felt cold, not only from the chilled air of the building, but as if it were running through her veins, her blood. She felt numb all of a sudden, almost empty. And it scared her, maybe more than the damage she had endured. "I-I'm sorry." she faltered shyly, unable to meet his eye.

"For what?" he asked in a soft voice, a little bemused.

Clara took a deep breath. "For anything and everything I've ever did t-to demean you." she muttered out, for apologizing certainly wasn't her specialty. John looked down upon her, the fallen hair from her bun cascaded across her face to hide her humiliated expression. A small smile appeared on his face as he took her two hands in his, pressing his lips atop of her bruised skin. Clara only shook her head. "You don't have to be nice to me."

His green eyes met hers, almost as if they were attracted by magnetism. "I can be nice to you all I want," he replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Clara, if anything, you've made me less of a coward ever since you ran into my life." he offered a light laugh in hopes to make her smile. Clara's eyes twinkled in amusement, but her overall expression wasn't entirely convinced. John looked at her, her cold hands in his, her insecure eyes wandering in between his gaze and the floor. "Hey," he whispered, delicately stroking her cheek. "Look at me." he said, gently tilting her chin upwards, her brown eyes locking onto his timidly. Though he knew she would deny it, John thought she looked absolutely beautiful, and without saying another word, John leaned in and kissed her.

Clara was taken aback by the feeling of his lips on hers, but slowly closing her eyes, she slowly began to realize that she might have loved him behind all of her irascible facades and impatient tempers. Every pointless insult, every argument they had shared, had only been a masking of an admiration that she herself could never fathom. She hesitantly cupped his face with her hand, kissing him back, his arms wrapped around her protectively, as if nothing could scare her within his embrace. And that's the way she felt. He pulled back carefully, as if he were letting go of something delicate, and as her dark chestnut hue of an awed stare looked back at him, silence suddenly filled the gap between them. At least, the sense was finally beginning to reach their ears.

John tore from her gaze in a sheepish manner, one that made Clara feel rather timid herself. She felt as if she had crossed a bridge she'd been struggling to get across, and yet she oblivious as to where it might lead her. "Would, you, uh-" John stuttered at first, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. "Would you like to go out for a coffee sometime?" he asked, his question seeming a bit out of order, when it came to Clara's attention that they never saw each other out of work. In all the time they had been together, it had been for the purpose of their profession, quarrels and disputes woven in between.

She bit her lip, her smile unable to be held back as she replied, "Yeah, sure. I'd like that."

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><p><strong>Next Chapter: A date?! Maybe so. And a new mystery will be unveiling itself, one that might just be out of Clara's control. <strong>


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter Twelve**_

_"A Bulletproof Picasso." Alec read aloud the name in bold printing, admiring the title of which Clara had chosen for the case files of the now ceasing investigation. "That's some girl you got there John," he added with a chuckle. "You ever wonder what it would be like if something were to happen to her? All that curiosity is like a magnet; it attracts danger." _

_John, who was sitting beside the man, only laughed. It was an impossible notion. Their past was finally beginning to seem as it should be, in the fog of black and white colors, a burden that both he and Clara had strengthened to carry together. "Never again." he said, his words being more of a reassurance to himself. "I'll never let her slip away from me." Clara was all he had, all he really needed; a beautiful ingenious angel whom he could never live up to. Everything was as it should be- at peace -and to John, it had almost been perfect._

_ Never had he been so wrong. _

* * *

><p><em><span>Eight Months Later<span>  
><em>

Wednesdays were the days in which Clara got to plan their evenings together, her activities contrasted from slightly-burnt homemade dinners to the extravagance of Broadway productions, and this night the young detective was feeling for the posh atmosphere. John wasn't allowed to do anything but agree. Though the price of their tickets made them cringe, they both promised to each other that they would work overtime in the next month to make up for it, even though the whole Broadway show situation _was_ Clara's idea. Yet she was feeling a bit nostalgic, for after repeatedly singing _'Defying Gravity' _in the showers (Which was bound to disturb her fellow neighbors), Wicked seemed like an appropriate choice of show.

She felt like a noir film star as she looked at herself in the mirror that hung loosely on the back of her closet door, the glass structure swinging relentlessly as she closed the doors shut. The navy blue satin dress flowed around her ankles, her hair styled up with the loose ends unwilling to be controlled by the chemicals of a cheap drug-store hair spray. Clara didn't have much hope in the product, anyway. John looked as handsome as any day he chose to be, his bow-tie fetish still existent as it shone proudly just underneath his provocative chin. And just below his bow-tie and a little to the left was the place where his heart beat; the most beautiful thing about him.

"You look beautiful." he murmured in her ear just before they stepped into his car. "And I'll never get tired of saying that."

Clara's lips curved upwards as she replied, "And I love you; I'll never get tired of saying _that_."

She received a Playbill as the two took their seats in the orchestra area of the Gershwin Theater, the distant sound of coalesced words and chatter filling in the overall excited atmosphere. Clara always had a passion for theatre arts, she took a class in college for it, but her interest for investigation and crime had already claimed her intentions. But it was still a fascination that she could truly appreciate. Her eyes danced across the stage with expressions of awe and amusement as the stage came to life with color and a thousand unfathomable special effects, Clara finding herself laughing aloud at the antics of each character. Clutching the Playbill close to her chest as each actor sang to their greatest capacity, clapping until her palms grew sore. It was times like these when she was allowed to forget about the notorious suspicions of New York's most wanted criminals and experience a life outside of the negativity, in which at work it had seemed she was drowning in its morbid spirit.

Once the curtain fell down, signifying the end of the first act, John immediately blurted out, "I need to use the restroom. Now." Clara furrowed her brow, for after an astonishing performance she would have expected John to say something a bit more relative to the topic. Yet the way he awkwardly squirmed around in his seat made her giggle as she replied, "You have the bladder of a three year-old. Go, I'll wait for you here." He didn't need to be told twice, the man clambering out of his seat without question as he hastily apologized to the people he brushed past.

Clara exhaled at the sight of him, easing herself back into her chair and tapping the armrest distractedly. How she had wished that life could be so easygoing and enjoyable, that somehow she could have the independence to do anything she wanted, see shows whenever she pleased, spend as much money as her heart desired knowing that it wouldn't matter. _Sometimes, it would be nice to seek a glimpse of an expensive yet blissful life, just to know the feeling. _Clara considered this date to be her glimpse, but she wasn't mindless to know that once the night was over, the costs of bare necessities would be haunting her like promises far overdue. She wasn't rich. Neither was John. Occasions like these seldom happened.

Suddenly, as if she could never escape trouble, shocked yet frightened gasps rippled throughout the theater like echoes, Clara's instinct directing her to turn around to see what all the ruckus was about. A woman in red lay unconscious in the aisle only a few feet behind her, Clara immediately standing up to assist her. _She must have fainted, poor thing. _Clara thought to herself worriedly, for as she approached the woman, she could see she was rather young, in her twenties at the least.

Though a crowd of people had already begun to swarm around her, Clara let a man who claimed to be a doctor to look over her respectfully. "Who would be kind enough to fetch some wet paper towels for the girl?" he asked suddenly, Clara's hand immediately shooting up in the air like a dagger. "I'll do it," she said quickly before anyone else could offer, walking jauntily on her heels to the restrooms of the theater.

The cold water ran freely between her fingertips as the rough paper began to soak, Clara's mind beginning to rush with exhilaration. It was a serious matter, she knew, yet she couldn't help but feel proud at the little she could do to help. Turning off the water, Clara quickly exited the bathroom, the door letting out a creak as a sign of her exit. The scene was tinted with distress, doctors willing to take control, women grimacing with unease, the banters of children who didn't quite understand what was happening.

"Will she be alright?" Clara asked, gently placing the paper towels atop of her forehead. The doctor nodded slightly. "Yes, she's only starting to wake, but thank you for your help." he gave Clara a generous yet forced smile, and she could see the tired lines upon his face that formed as the pressure shaped them into creases of stress. _Some people's work will never find an end._ She suggested to herself. Clara felt more confident as the woman started to recur, sighs of relief spreading throughout the room. Clara started to turn back to her seat, hands clasped before her as she tried to reel her mind back into a state of relaxation.

Taking a seat back down, she placed her playbill atop of her lap, sighing at the closed curtain of the stage. She tried to contemplate upon the primary focus of the evening. _Date. Peace. No work. No worries. _But as she looked down upon the Playbill before her, there scribbled recklessly across the front page was words that Clara had to squint to make out. In red marker, still foul smelling and smeared was its permanent ink, were the letters that left Clara's entire world feeling vulnerable.

_Remember Clara, no good deed goes unpunished. - Love, Gigi _

Hands working carelessly, she crumpled the Playbill inside of her shaking hands, nothing but fear spreading throughout her like a disease. Question after question her heart seemed to beat faster until it too would seem dead as night. _Who was Gigi? Why did she know my name? And what the hell do those words mean?  
><em>

_What am I supposed to do now? _

"Have I missed anything?"

Clara jolted upright at the sound of John's voice as he took a seat beside her. As she gazed over to him, she could almost feel the tears appear as she saw his innocent stare. "Y-Yes, quite frankly." she put in before the silence had confused her partner furthermore, shoving the Playbill in between the seats. "I fetched some paper towels for an unconscious woman," she hastily explained, John furrowing his brow at her tone of positivity that complimented her statement. "Well, I mean, she's fine now." Clara added, nodding her head diligently. Somehow, her fear from Gigi's note remained unexpressed as she then sat back in her seat, only to leave an even more bewildered John to ponder for himself on what had happened.

Clara refused to say anything. She refused to leave, for John; she would have to explain to him why. And he was already having a pleasant evening, Clara had no right to cease it. She tried to push the thought away of the crumpled Playbill stuck between the seats, yet its presence seemed to be all the more noticeable, as if radiant waves were being cast from the words written on it to Clara's mind.

She suddenly became too scared to turn around, all for one reason and one alone. Someone was watching her. A person who knew who she was, her name, what she looked like; a complete and utter stranger. And later on in the night, when the lyrics of the song _No Good Deed _echoed throughout the theater, Clara swore she could feel that one person laugh.

* * *

><p>"As always, I had a lovely evening with you Miss Oswald." John complimented as he dropped her off later that night. The light beside her apartment door flickered dimly, and Clara was glad. It meant he wouldn't see the distress upon her face as she pulled her lips into a tight smile. "Perhaps next week I should just stick to the slightly-burnt casserole." Clara suggested idly.<p>

"And I'll enjoy it all the same." he replied in amusement, closing the small space between them to capture her in a kiss. Clara hesitantly kissed back, attempting to avoid the thoughts about the cryptic note she had left behind at the theater. He parted her lips with his own, his tongue running along her bottom lip, almost pleading for entrance. Clara allowed it as she stumbled backwards against her door, the love between them unable to be held back as she suppressed a low moan. Fingers running through his long hair, Clara's breath shortened as John trailed soft and gentle kisses down her neck and atop of her collarbone.

"J-John-" she shuddered a laugh as she carefully pushed him back, meeting his eyes through the darkness of the night. "You and I have work tomorrow morning, you better get home and rest." she claimed, a slightly disappointed stare coming from him. She sighed quietly. "Oh come on, don't look at me like that." she said, her small hands cupping his face. "I love you." she smiled, bringing her lips to his once more. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"...alright, love you too." he finally replied, squeezing his hand in hers before letting go, waving briskly as he walked towards his car. Clara bit her lip as he pulled out of the parking lot, the taillights fading from view as he drove away, out of her sight. It was then when she could feel the cold tingling upon her skin, just the isolation of the scene itself enough to have Clara race inside to the safety of her apartment. And once the door was closed, she locked it shut.

She even checked twice.

* * *

><p>Once she had awaken the next morning, her hair askew from the tossing and turning, the incidents of the previous night had almost seemed like a horrible dream. She snacked on some leftover saltine crackers as she watched the coffee brew drop by drop, and she somewhat regretted having John leave like that, for it would have felt comforting to know that he could have been there right beside her. Maybe it was just because he made her breakfast every time they stayed together; she never knew.<p>

Then suddenly, the doorbell rang, sending Clara into a jerk of surprise as she eyed the door groggily. She glanced over to the wall clock just above her desk, it wasn't even eight yet and someone had requested for her presence. Clara cursed underneath her breath at the state of herself, raking her fingers through her matted hair as she lazily made her way to the door. Looking into the peep hole, she saw nobody outside. _That's weird. _she thought to herself, opening the door and feeling the mild breeze of the morning.

"Hello?" she called out. Nobody answered. She furrowed her brow as she stepped out, her foot, or whatever was _underneath _her foot to be preside, making a sound of crumpling paper as her eyes immediately darted down only to be met with the Wicked Playbill from the night before. She almost tripped trying to get her foot off of it, clinging onto the door-frame for support as she stared at it with horror. The red words were still written there, but there was another note, a bright florescent post-it that read:

_You left it at the theater. Thought you might want it back. - Love, Gigi_

_P.S. Whoever you tell only dies faster. _

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I do not own Wicked, although I really wish I did. But if you get a chance to see it at the Gershwin Theater in New York, I definitely suggest that you do! :D :D (Don't worry, the events of this chapter are entirely fictional!)  
><strong>


	13. Chapter 13

_**Chapter** **Thirteen**_

When Clara got off the subway that morning, coffee in hand, the amount of obstacles she had to overcome were equivalent to running an Olympic marathon. She had wasted a generous amount of her time trying to comprehend the mystery behind her Wicked Playbill, looking behind her shoulder every minute, for she couldn't help but have the feeling that somebody was watching her. That wasn't supposed to happen; if Clara didn't feel secure between the walls of her own home, what could possibly make anywhere else seem safer? Clara was hoping that this whole ordeal was just a prank, a joke with good intentions, for a flamboyant stalker wasn't on her list of necessities at the time. Nor will it ever be.

To her dismay, when Clara arrived at TARDIS, her day didn't get any better. If anything, it probably spiraled downwards even more than it already had when she saw the police vehicles parked outside the building, their blue and red lights combining with sunlight to emit a blinding reflection off of the windows. Clara had to assure herself that the picture before her wasn't a dream, and picking up her pace, she clutched onto her handbag as she ran up reached the entrance, only to be stopped by an officer who looked more than pretentious at doing his job. "Excuse me ma'am, pedestrians are not allowed in the building."

Clara gave him a menacing stare through her large tinted sunglasses. "Excuse me sir, but I work here."

"I'm going to need some identification please."

"Oh, for god's sake..." she sighed in exasperation, digging in her purse for her wallet, praying that she had it with her. "Aha!" the detective exclaimed, waving it in the officer's face, which admittedly was rather rude of her, but she couldn't help but be a bit sassy when triumphant. "Clara Oswald, TARDIS Private Eye, understood?" Before she could receive a response, she pushed past him and strut into the building with her utmost confidence in herself that today would be a better day. _You're just cranky Clara. _She reminded herself in third person, trying to shake off her worries.

Once the elevator opened, Clara was pushed back by the sight of Alex, a police woman at his side, each mirroring a look of distress upon their faces. "Alex?" Clara asked quietly as the two started to step out. "What's happened? What's going on?" Her boss locked eyes onto hers, trying to soften the grave look he had on his face as he replied, "Oh Clara, I apologize for the hassle," He shook his head, raking his hand through his hair. "There's been a break-in; we're trying to sort it all out." he explained, Clara's face losing a bit of color at his words. "Please, go on up, John's already there."

"I-I...okay." she shook her head powerlessly, watching him walk out of the building in unease. The elevator was still waiting, and Clara couldn't help but feel as if it were growing impatient with her. Running in, she smoothed down her dress and leaned against the wall, all of the disarray draining the energy out of her at an instant. The doors closed, Clara hearing the tiny click as she pressed the button for the eleventh floor. As she felt the floor rise from beneath her, she considered the possibilities of her day getting worse. Needless to say, she was rather creative with her options.

The door split in half to reveal a scene that seemed copied and pasted from her crime novels, and albeit the fact that she _did _work as a trained and private investigator, seeing officers shifting through her desk wasn't something she saw everyday, nor something she would so easily allow. "Hey!" she called out to them as she pulled her sunglasses upward, resting them atop of her head as she cried, "I have personal belongings in that desk; you have no damn right to-"

"Hey, hey, _hey,_" John's soothing voice interrupted her, pulling her back slightly with the touch of his hand. "It's alright, everything's going to be fine." Clara's rage died down within her as she was met with the small smile of her partner, a smile that could seriously make peace between countries if it wanted to. "Y-You..." She sputtered, looking between him and her now cluttered work space. "You agreed to this?"

"If it means we find a culprit of this break-in, then yes, I wholeheartedly agreed to it." He said in a voice she almost didn't recognize. It sounded so responsible for a man of a comic nature. He turned back to the officers. "Sorry," he said sympathetically, gesturing towards Clara. "She's sort of a control freak."

"I am _not _a-!"

"Don't lie to yourself. It's unhealthy." John interrupted. "My office. Now." he instructed, plucking the styrofoam cup out of her hand and taking a sip out of it, his face twisting into an expression of distaste. "And add a little creamer to your coffee."

Her instinct demanded that she slap him with the compliments of a witty remark, but, clenching her fists tightly, she managed to breathe and follow orders for once. Holding her hands up in surrender, she pivoted on her heel, trying to remove all thoughts of how irritated she would be while organizing her now chaotic desk. Closing the door of his office behind her, she sighed in disappointment of how a lovely date could end up with a number of mysterious she had yet to solve. Could this break-in be tied with the two messages she had received? If so, it was a mess that she felt the responsibility to clean up after.

Hoisting herself onto his desk, she despondently straightened the little trinkets that seemed out of order; snow-globes, picture frames, historical figurines (She never understood his bizarre interests.); each of them leaving a trace of dust atop of her fingertips. Clara felt out of place, for she was supposed to be the one solving the problems of victims, not becoming one herself. She wasn't sure she could handle the stress of being both at once. Just then, there was a small knock on the door. "May I come in?" John's quiet voice asked. Clara rolled her eyes. "It's your office anyway, so you might as well."

His smile was the first thing she saw. "You okay?"

She nodded a little too sarcastically. "Oh, _just_ peachy." She replied with a forced smile atop of her lips, which was followed by a sigh. "Sorry, I didn't get that much sleep last night is all, and _that_-" She pointed out the door in direction of her work space. "-isn't making my day any better." Clara hated when people whined, but she'd be a hypocrite if she pointed it out, for she was prone to doing it herself.

"Please," John scoffed. "No need to apologize."

"Anyway," She shook her head, trying to rid herself of her personality defects. "What happened? To TARDIS's data, its files; is everything still intact?"

John sighed, closing the door behind him. "Fortunately, nothing was stolen, but everything was turned over; seems as though the intruder couldn't find what they were looking for."

"Are there any files that are checked out? Any that the others are working on?"

"A few," John nodded, running a hand across his face as if to smooth out the lines that creased his skin. "There's this murderess case Ortiz was looking into, and I was assigned to the disappearance of Celine Kizlet; so I have all files containing her and the ones she worked with. You remember her, right?" Clara tried not to flinch at the name, but accept it as one of the past, one that she could easily hear without being haunted at its sound. "Co-conspirators with that Simeon man, yeah." Clara said a little too quietly.

John didn't feel like continuing, for he felt the topic was too sensitive for the young detective. Making his way towards her, he lifted her chin, her eyes refusing to meet his as he said, "Hey. Don't feel intimidated by them anymore. You're safe now."

"Well how can I be sure?" Clara blurted out, wanting to tell him badly of the messages she'd be receiving and more importantly, what to do of them. He was the right person for those kind of things. She could handle herself around people, her acting and lies once turned around an entire interrogation, but she was at her weakest when it came to being the brains of an entire operation; John was always conveniently there to do it for her, and he knew well enough that she couldn't manage alone. "How do any of us know that we're safe? How do any of us know how many people Simeon tricked into working for him? We don't. That's what-" She stopped to breathe and for once, tear up in fear of what might happen to her. "That's what I'm scared of."

Silence came from the man before her, and he took a few seconds to get a good look at her. Tucking a stray hair behind her ear, he said, "That's what they think of us too, you know." His hand slowly making its way to her cheek. Clara let her head cradle in his hand for a moment as he continued. "All that confidence is nothing compared to what they're feeling inside. They're still human, Clara."

She paused for a moment to consider this. The face behind the treacherous words that were directed towards her were not written with a shaky hand, and she seemed to know that well enough. Whoever was doing this to her had confidence, not because they were self-absorbent of themselves, not because they were immoral either, but because they already had her in their hands, and that itself was enough to crush her.

* * *

><p><em>Unknown Address  Sent: 11:59 p.m. _

_To: Clara Oswald _

_Upload any files containing Kizlet or the ones she associates with to the private web link below. You have 24 hours. If these instructions are not met, stay awake Clara, for you might have some unexpected visitors in the night. _

_Love, Gigi_


	14. Chapter 14

_**Chapter Fourteen**_

She was hoping.

Hoping with her hands clasped so tightly that everything she had seen would be just a dream. That she would wake up to a smiling face of her boyfriend, a boyfriend that could understand that what she needed could just about save herself from getting killed by whoever wanted her killed. She also then realized that John could potentially lose his job for betrayal, a loss that would tattoo itself on his conscience for the rest of her career. Clara didn't want to be the reason for it.

In honesty, she couldn't think. She couldn't think about anything else that could possibly get her out of this situation. As if her brain was now eroding away to the point in which no knowledge was left to comprehend. And it made her so mad. So frustrated. But most of all, so lost.

_"John? It's Clara. I have to tell you something. Call me when you get this." _

_"John. Clara again. It's kind of important. Please call." _

_"Clara here. John, I'm so sorry. You're probably really busy but...call me." _

_"John. It's me. Call, please." _

_"Clara? Hi, it's John! Sorry I couldn't call you back the first four times you called, I was stuck at a meeting. But guess what? We managed to hack into the system that Simeon uses. Remember him? The guy that...well, never mind. Text me when you can come to my office so I can show you; it's really cool! Okay, bye. Love you." _

* * *

><p>"Answer you phone when I call you next time, please." was the first thing she said when she closed the door to his office. John looked up from his computer, eyes bloodshot yet smile genuinely crazed, and took of his glasses, perching them atop of a stack of books he never read. "My god John, have you slept at <em>all<em> last night?"

"The meeting started last night, we got out at two in the morning." he replied with a shaky laugh, and she couldn't hear his voice in it anymore. It was croaked, wretched, tired, and in need of some water. Clara wasn't sure whether to feel scared or not, for the man before her seemed entirely insane. "Well, don't just stand there, come here! I need to show you all the work we've done last night; I believe its really paid off." John said, beckoning her over. Clara started making her way behind his desk with ease, her intentions clear in her mind. "So this is what we call a private web link, it's what all of Simeon's colleagues use to upload stolen files onto." he explained, and Clara couldn't help but find those words familiar. Taking out her phone, she opened her email to find the message that she had received last night. Clicking the link, she was relocated to a sign-in page.

"Did you uh, did you find the password to the site?" Clara asked uneasily, shifting her weight from left to right repeatedly.

"Yeah." John replied, nodding his head. "Why?"

"Do you happen to remember what it was?"

"Yeah, sure. I believe it was..._greatintelligencegreatintelligence1011._"

As Clara typed it in, she couldn't help but sense that there was more than just one pattern to the password. As if she could immediately detect where it came from. _Great Intelligence, Great Intelligence_...the words repeated in her head thousands of times, as if they were all connected to her thoughts some how. _Great Intelligence, Great Intelligence...G...I...G...I. _Clara froze. She didn't know where the possibility came from, but suddenly it all clicked into place. Why they wanted the files on Kizlet and the rest of them. Kizlet was the only one not caught that night, the night of October the eleventh...

October the eleventh. Ten eleven. _10 11._

They were zoned in on Clara, as if they had incredible aim at her head at all times and she had only realized now. She immediately turned off her phone and stuffed it back into her bag, running her hands madly through her hair, panting as if somebody were choking her. John stared at her dubiously, for it was her turn to look insane. "Clara? You okay?"

"...they're coming for me." She muttered, pacing back and forth the room. "They're coming for me and I can do nothing. They're coming, oh god they're coming..."

"Clara!" John exclaimed, getting up from his chair to hold her in place. "Who...who's coming?"

"They are. Simeon. Everyone. They're coming for me and I'm going to die and I can do nothing about it." she chanted like an ancient hymn as she started to shake. John, however, was entirely bewildered by her words. "Clara, calm down, what the hell do you mean?"

"They've been stalking me. They're following me. Trying to get information from TARDIS and I can't give it to them John, I _can't!_" she was properly crying by then, the man holding her trying to offer the poor woman a hug, but she only shook out of his grasp. "Messages from places and people I don't even know!" she sounded crazed and confused, as if she were running through a maze with no escape. John allowed her to sit on the floor, for he was trying to comfort her in any way that he could with such little he knew. Holding her head between her hands, she could no longer hold anything in. It was driving her mad. "They know where I live, John. They know my email. Hell, they're probably watching me cry right now!" she exclaimed, and all she said was true. They were probably laughing at her weakness.

"Clara," John said, crouching down to meet her eye level. "Darling, I want to do anything that I can to help, please let me. I know you will, but, I need to know everything that you know, when this started, and how it happened." he licked his lips nervously. "Could you do that for me?" Clara sniffled, and then nodded her head. She was willing to cooperate, to let him listen. He could fix everything. Allowing John to help her lift herself off of the floor, he escorted her to his desk chair, where she tried to sit back and breathe normally. She was going to tell, she was going to let it all out.

But just as she was about to speak, a light caught her eye. The light from John's computer. The light from a camera. The webcam was on when she knew it wasn't supposed to be.

_Someone's watching us. _

And then she slammed it closed.


	15. Chapter 15

**_Chapter Fifteen_**

_He's gonna die._ Clara thought immediately after she shut his laptop closed, the face of her bewildered partner staring dubiously at back at her. _I spilled out about my stalker and now he's gonna die. _Clara felt nauseous, as if her entire body were to collapse with the pressure. "I-I should probably go," she said in a mere whisper as she picked up her bag, making a beeline to the door before John's significantly larger physique blocked her from doing so.

"Hold on, Clara." he said with a shaky, nervous laugh, hands planted firmly on her biceps. "You can't promise me an explanation and then just flee like that, I'm getting worried. You're not telling me anything."

"Good. Because I can't. Not anymore." Clara stated, trying not to let her voice waver between being strong and extremely terrified. John was clearly one of the only people left in this entire city that she cared about, and she couldn't risk putting him in a target zone more than he already was. "Please, just, _let me go._"

"I thought our relationship was built upon trust for one another. Speaking to one another." John said with a furrowed brow, licking his dry lips. "A-And if you can't do that for me, if you can't speak to me without having to choose your words wisely, then...then I don't think we have any business together." Clara couldn't help but cringe slightly, for his words seemed to instruct an impossible task. She didn't trust him with the secrets she had, yet, she didn't speak to him out of fear; all those things were supposed to keep him alive. And now Clara had told him, and she wasn't sure how long she could hold her breath.

"I-I can. I can do that." she replied, the words barely escaping her tongue because she knew she was lying to herself and to him.

"Then, Clara, what are you so afraid to tell me?" His eyes were similar to a hound's, pleading for information. Clara could assure herself that she was now shaking, for his grip only grew stronger on her arms. She tried to shake free from his grasp.

"I-I can't tell you." she said, shaking her head determinedly. "I'm sorry."

A huff of breath from him told her that he was tired of this, and while letting go of her, he silently moved away from the door. Head hanging low, Clara kept her eyes fixed onto her shoes and slowly made her way out, trying not to make eye contact with him, for she knew that what was between them was certainly at risk. _But if it means keeping him alive, _she thought to herself as she resisted the urge to run back and apologize. _Then I'd lie to him a thousand times.  
><em>  
>With the strong slam of the door, Clara was gone, John running his hands through his hair in frustration. How could he have let her go like that? Not fight for what he thought was a love that would stay unbreakable? He felt torn between treating his partner as an independent being, one who can make her own choices at her own time, or treating her as his own. Why couldn't he do both without fail?<p>

Sitting down at his desk chair, he twiddled with his thumbs for some time, trying to determine how much he wanted to chase after her. To apologize.

_She means the world to me. _

Opening his laptop, he pulled open a computer program, a GPS tracking app. A map of New York City shone before him, paths of roads and avenues staring back at him. Right in front of the TARDIS building was a little red dot that kept moving farther away, farther away from _him_. _Oh Clara. _He thought to himself, staring at the little red dot of which she represented. _What are you hiding from me?  
><em>  
>John didn't know where to draw the line between being completely overprotective and insanely caring for Clara, and he certainly didn't know where installing a tracking device on her phone came into that picture. Especially the fact that he didn't tell Clara about it yet. But he was just so anxious and worried that one day, he was going to wake up, and she wouldn't be there. <em>Have I gone mad? <em>He would ask himself on a regular basis, for he felt compulsive over needing to keep Clara safe.

_No matter what. _

* * *

><p>Her cell phone was ringing, and with an unsteady hand she answered it; she was still shaken up from her past conversation.<p>

"Hello?"

"Yes, hello, is this Miss Clara Oswald?" It was a sweet, yet hurried voice on the other end.

"Yes, this is she."

"This is Albany Regional Hospital."

"...is everything alright?"

"I'm afraid this is about your father. You see, he just endured a car accident."

She froze in her tracks. "S-Sorry?"

"It was a collision with a taxicab. I'm sorry to say that he's in critical condition." the lady on the other end said rather despondently, as if she were sharing the pain with her. Clara grew furious at her tone, but swallowed it; the lady was just trying to help.

"I-I'll be right there, tell him that I'm coming!" she exclaimed, trying to get a taxi from the busy street. The lady merely agreed to do so, and while hanging up, Clara started to feel a massive headache pounding onto her skull. They weren't going after John, they were going after her father. He lived in upstate, hardly visited for holidays because of work, and to know that she would be seeing him for the first time in years in a critical condition made her feel terrible. She could get to Albany in a few hours, that would give her enough time to compose herself.

And as the taxi driver drove into the midst of the city to Penn Station, Clara could feel her heart beating rapidly, pounding in her ears. She was just hoping that she would get there in time.

Till then, she would just have to keep holding her breath.


End file.
